


All That Glitters Is Gold

by Driverpicksthemooseic (Ratkinzluver33)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AKA basically the whole show, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel True Forms (Supernatural), Angelic Lore, Angst and Humor, Creature Fic, Demon True Forms, Developing Relationship, Fallen Angel Dean Winchester, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Hybrid Sam Winchester, In a way, M/M, Michael Falls and Becomes Dean Winchester, Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Michael!Dean, Mild Gore, Pre-Poly, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Season/Series 05, Super Winchester Bros, TFL is developing, Team Free Love, Team as Family, Theology, Wherein Beauty is the Beast, and vice versa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratkinzluver33/pseuds/Driverpicksthemooseic
Summary: In nature, it was hunt or be hunted. It had only followed, then, in his logic, that Heaven should end up the same.(OR, an S5 Fix-It, with an angelic twist.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Gabriel (Supernatural), Castiel/Gabriel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Castiel/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Gabriel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 132
Kudos: 154





	1. Glimmer of Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many years ago in my writing career, I wrote an SPN fic or two. Sometimes I cry in embarrassment just thinking about it, other times I realise I'm gonna cry thinking about all my fics forever regardless, so I might as well own it.
> 
> This is one of my longest running fandoms (wow, because my username and AO3 icon didn't give that away or anything), and I've never thought my dignity would let me return to writing for it after 14-year-old me's cringe-worthy legacy. But that's stupid and I've had the need to write this plotbunny for a Long, Long Time -- and by that I mean over 8 years -- and now I'm rolling with it.
> 
> This is an ancient idea that popped up mainly in S4-S5 era fics. If you want to be surprised on the twist, skip the next paragraph.
> 
>  _What if Heaven was completely bullshitting the whole time about the state of affairs? What if they started the Apocalypse because Michael was M.I.A. and they needed to basically force him out of hiding to defeat Lucifer? What if it turns out Michael was so disillusioned, he went even further than Gabriel, further than Anael, and Fell from Grace 30 odd years ago in a little town in Kansas?_
> 
> I fell in love with this divergent AU and decided to give it my own spin. Check the tag for more amazing takes on this idea, or comment, and I'll gladly rec my personal favourites. 
> 
> Anyway. As you know, my career is in publishing new fics and neglecting old ones, rinse and repeat, but I always come back to them. And since this bloody show has FIFTEEN SEASONS, a convoluted plot, a wild Destiel love confession on the day Putin stepped down, a finale that left me reeling, and STILL hasn't shaken me yet, I can assure you this won't be abandoned.
> 
> Some elements of later canon will be included. But Chuck is a disillusioned, drunk cynic trying to escape his mistakes rather than the puppet master the later seasons painted him as. 
> 
> With that out of the way, time to travel back in time and write S5!fic, because nostalgia. Also, this entire fic is just me nodding along at Gabriel. I can, like, relate to him on a spiritual level, man. Spiritual.
> 
> (Edit: [Here's a link](https://imgur.com/a/yax4ajC) to the reference album for my inspiration on angelic and demonic true forms. More will be added as the fic progresses!)

Castiel knows there is dust on his Father's throne in Heaven. He's suspected it for a great deal of his existence, but he'd allowed no doubts to form until the chain of command truly seemed to forget their sacred duty -- the duty to protect and love mankind. God had watched Lucifer fall for this; his Heavenly brothers had grieved him over this one single disagreement. And when Heaven forgot itself, Castiel knew God doing nothing meant He'd left for the mortal plane. Or for something only He could know. To ignore His own children was not a choice.

Or, at least, that's what he told himself at night, when the brothers slept, and all he could do was stare outside at the stars and wonder just how far Heaven had to fall before it was touching Earth.

* * *

Gabriel is a nuisance, and a plague on his thoughts. Castiel often wonders if his Heavenly Father created Gabriel to teach angels the true meaning of pain, but that would make a modicum of sense, and nothing in this world seems to adhere to rhyme or reason any longer.

"Do you intend for me to suffer?" Castiel asks, eyes firmly planted on the water-stained ceiling of the motel Dean and Sam have picked out. Their taste could not possibly be any worse, but he supposes that's the point.

"Little bro," Gabriel says, solemnly. "That's not how family works."

"It is how ours works."

"Alright," he admits. "That is how ours works. But, be not afraid, I'm here for a reason." 

Castiel waits, and when no answer is forthcoming, asks, "Yes?"

"I would tell you that reason, but I'm not going to. Adds a little fun to this whole mess, right?"

"In what way is a deliberate ploy to mislead me 'fun'?"

Gabriel settles down on the bed, making a big show of getting comfortable, and munches away on a bar of chocolate. "Listen, I can't tell you about it because, frankly, it's somewhat of an experiment. A blind study. The participants can't know they're participating. That whole shebang."

Castiel is far too tired to be amused by his brother's antics. It doesn't surprise him. Even with the energy of a thousand souls, he'd still be driven mad by it either way. But now it's excruciating, like walking on nails. "Haven't you already defeated the point of this exercise by telling me?"

"No. The participants can't know what they're participating in. They can know they're participating." Gabriel frowns, caught up in his own wording. "That's not the point. The point is, I'm going to be hanging around for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"For the foreseeable future," Gabriel snaps. The lights flicker.

If it were acceptable, Castiel would throttle him. Instead, he closes his eyes and sighs. "Yes. Will you need... lodging?"

"Oh, look at you, they've taught you how to be considerate. That's precious." Castiel glares, and finally Gabriel relents, "Yes, Brother, I'll be needing lodging."

"There are usually only two beds. I know you enjoy sleeping recreationally. But some of us require it." Him, too, now. 

"I'll share with the Moose."

Part of Castiel feels a little guilty that he knows immediately who Gabriel is referring to with his colourful metaphors. The other part is absolutely horrified on Sam's behalf. "You'll have to ask him," he warns.

"That's kind of our schtick."

"I was making an observation."

"Did you hit your head a little too hard?"

"No," Castiel says blankly. "Did you?"

"Wow, little bro. Thanks for letting me know I'm gonna have to gear up for a bumpy ride."

Forget true Perdition, Castiel is in Hell at this moment. "As Dean would say, 'Bite me.'"

* * *

Castiel's cold remarks and terrible attempts at cobbling together various vulgarities do not throw Gabriel off. An Archangel's dedication is naturally unwavering, but Gabriel himself has always rejected everything natural and embraced contrarian tantrums. It's a fool's hope. Whatever experiment Gabriel has in mind is not going to be bribed away by stacks of Earth desserts.

Castiel is left alone to break the news to Dean and Sam, which he finds to be the most unbearable part in all this truly Godforsaken affair. His tact leaves much to be desired, and he knows next to nothing about human protocol. Does one attempt to offer physical comfort when presenting another with bad news? Or is it proper to allow space to heal? Castiel is unaware of the specifics behind what social graces he misperforms, but he isn't so blind as to completely fail to realise he's blundered in the first place. Not that Dean could ever let him forget. His social skills are rusty.

He is not sure how to begin, and while he has no fear of injury, any violent outbursts could result in legal action from the owners of this property, as burnt with cigarettes and covered in all manner of dangerous bacteria as it is. Castiel would be glad to be rid of such a thing, personally, but humans have strange sentimental attachments to objects with otherwise no value. A Winchester brother's rage at being saddled with the world's most powerful pest could potentially destroy the cherished memories of whoever had these mucus-coloured walls built.

They have the worst taste imaginable, but they also have feelings.

The brothers are out, gone to retrieve fast food for the evening's meal. Castiel is sincerely hoping Gabriel has no mind to return before they are well-fed and prepared to slowly lose their minds and grow nauseous at just the mere sight of candy wrappers, as Castiel himself is beginning to. 

Dean also has a suspicious side that enjoys rearing its head wherever Castiel's family among the Heavenly Host are involved. And that's without knowing he's unwittingly become part of one of their pet projects, whatever it is in the world that Gabriel thinks he's doing. What happened to 'lying low'? If this is another scheme to have Sam drowned in the light of the Morningstar, Castiel will stab Gabriel with his own sword and banish his broken form to the Ninth Circle of Hell so he may bathe in its light forever. He's so tired of being alone against his kin. 

With any luck, it will not come to that. Gabriel may have the personality of a mosquito, but he is not a traitor against God. He clearly does not seem to subscribe to the belief that Michael and Lucifer are the Righteous, despite his willingness to let their deathly reign over humanity play out.

Castiel can chalk that up to fear. It is unlike an Archangel to be anything but unafraid, but Gabriel runs at the first sign of trouble, as he always has, and always will. Castiel himself spends a great deal of time dreading what is to come, but he still faces his day head-on. When the Grace is burnt from his vessel, he can say, at least, that he went down fighting, and not hopelessly drunk in a suspicious, foul-smelling bar, two aesthetically pleasing humans on each arm who probably couldn't bring themselves to care about his gratification beyond the intent for their services to be worth payment in some appropriate Earth currency.

Castiel has no problems with Gabriel's more obscene habits outside of the End, but now he has responsibilities to God, to His children, and to Heaven. Would Gabriel, who used and abused free will as if it were no more notable than an insect, truly find peace while knowing Raphael and Michael marched Seraphim and Cherubim alike to their deaths like the good little soldiers they were?

Clueless and mindlessly obedient and loyal as dogs. He'd spent eons in the exact same state, and it hadn't even bothered him. The gross mistreatment of the Host hadn't even occurred to him until Dean had looked upon Paradise and found it lacking.

Castiel never had any frame of reference. He was intensely curious about the biology of living beings, but not their social habits, or the conditions in which they existed. Castiel would watch birds, and in his youth, the theropods that came before them. But he wouldn't attempt to understand their minds.

In nature, it was hunt or be hunted. It had only followed, then, in his logic, that Heaven should end up the same. But he sees now how wrong he was, and how ruined the Garrison had become for his brethren. Anna had chosen to Fall, Gabriel to run, and Balthazar to... well, Castiel isn't sure he wants to know what Balthazar does half the time.

Gabriel has a specific responsibility as an Archangel to uphold the basic Holy principles. Castiel is unaffected by superficial sin, which he hardly counts and frequently participates in, but Gabriel choosing to desert his family is not what God would have wanted, if Castiel's idea of his Father's wishes is even slightly accurate. These days he's more inclined to think not.

Dean and Sam return with far too many bags of food to be healthy, with far too much grease dripping from the bottom to be nutritionally fulfilling. Castiel eyes it sceptically. There are a few different brandnames on their haul, and Dean has his mouth wrapped around an orange soda. The chemicals make him shudder. "We have chow," Dean announces, brightly, tongue stained citrus yellow. Castiel wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, yeah, you don't require sustenance, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy it anyway. Eat up. No way me and Sammy can finish th-" Dean stops. "Yeah, we can. But we shouldn't." He points. "Mindfulness, huh."

"Not mindful enough to eat any of the healthier options," Sam grouses.

"I'm not a rabbit; therefore I don't eat rabbit food. Basic logic. Not rocket science."

"I wasn't aware food prepared specifically for domestic pets could also be consumed by their human owners," Castiel says.

Dean salutes. "It can't."

"Rabbit food got me taller than you," Sam says, petulant.

"That's because you're naturally a giant, not because the lettuce made you a big boy. Hell, maybe eating your vegetables made you smaller. Ever consider that?"

"No, because that's not actually possible and you know it."

Castiel tilts his head. "If petfood is not edible by humans, how is Sam's diet sustaining his health?"

"Salads aren't petfood," Sam cuts in.

"On the contrary, many of the ingredients in salads are frequently fed to many herbivorous species-"

Sam throws up his hands. "That's not what I meant, Cas."

Castiel turns to Dean. "What does he mean?"

"He's just pissy he missed out on burgers all through college because he was too busy dipping his carrots in tahini and inhaling his whole wheat wraps."

Sam glares. "Oh, yes, Dean, I'm very pissy I missed out on early-onset heart disease, diabetes, and eventual death."

The argument makes Castiel wonder if Gabriel works particularly hard to maintain the upkeep of his human vessel, considering his diet consists mainly of nutritional poison, and the only thing he eats that's even so much as heard of sunlight would be the peanuts in his Snicker's bars. Then Castiel realises Gabriel is supposed to be the subject they're discussing regardless, and sighs. "I have some unfortunate news."

Dean stops waving a stray piece of lettuce in Sam's face. "Did someone die?"

"Not physically, no. Perhaps, in a spiritual sense..." Castiel shrugs, which feels wrong on his shoulders and likely looks stilted enough to set him down in the Uncanny Valley. "Gabriel's going to be working with us."

Dean sours immediately. "Can we fire him?"

Sam groans. "Do we have a choice?"

"He made it very clear we have no say in the matter."

Honestly, Castiel isn't sure that telling them Gabriel's running some sort of sick experiment is a good idea. Of course, humans say "honesty is the best policy", but watching the Winchesters get jumpy and paranoid isn't a preferable outcome.

"Well, what the hell does he want?" Sam buries his face in his hands and sits down on the bed, then steals a fry from out of Dean's hand and eats it like a man dying.

Dean angrily grabs another fry, which he doesn't let Sam get anywhere near. "To teach us a lesson again." 

"Haven't we basically heard every lesson he's got in the book?"

"He implied he was going to be watching us for a reason," Castiel starts, and Dean chokes on his soda.

"He what? This isn't a museum, buddy."

"And he hasn't even paid an entrance fee." Sam clarifies, "Running with the metaphor, I mean. Don't look at me like that. Anyway. Seriously, what have we got to offer? Hunting lessons? How to run into things without really planning them out first? How to majorly fuck up the Apocalypse?"

"Hey," Dean protests.

"Gabriel refuses to tell me the purpose of his experiment. Needless to say, he's very determined to carry it out. I assure you, I attempted to ward him off, but we apparently play some sort of important role in his plan."

Dean looks disgusted, face closing off against a grimace. "I'm pretty sick of being a role in someone else's plan."

"It doesn't sit well with me either, Dean." Castiel sighs. "But I'm not sure we can afford to make another enemy out of an Archangel. That Gabriel is the only one left who doesn't want to see us executed notwithstanding." 

"Fuck them, then," Dean growls. "And the Four Horses they rode in on."

"You and Sam are mortal. And I am only a foot soldier, not even a Seraph, let alone an Archangel." 

"Picking up sloppy seconds because we're desperate is a new low, even for us," Dean spits. "Gabriel made it real clear how he feels about helping us out. He's sitting on the sidelines, eating the popcorn, and not risking his feathery hide for history's three stupidest musketeers. What's he gonna do now? Watch the freak show from up close and personal?"

"I assure you, if I knew the reason for my brother's change of heart, I would tell you. He rarely involves himself in the affairs of the Host."

Sam frowns at this. "So, basically, you're saying something major must have changed to get him to pick a side?"

"Yes," Castiel agrees. "Though I'm not certain he has, in fact, picked a side."

"I dunno," Sam says. "Surely he knows how it would look to Lucifer, him sticking by us. Not exactly neutral of him to ride shotgun with the three thorns in their celestial sides."

"I'm sorry I can't be of more use. But I have never been able to understand Gabriel's motives, even before he..."

"Got the hell out of dodge? Ditched the divine popsicle stand? Fucked off to have Pagan orgies and bathe in lamb's blood?" Dean interrupts, licking ketchup from his fingers.

Castiel sighs. "I don't have the strength to keep him away. Banishing wards are only a temporary solution, and trapping him in Holy Fire… I won't leave him at the mercy of Lucifer. Nobody deserves that kind of fate, not even Gabriel."

"I don't want to give the Devil a damned thing," Dean says, vehement. "No matter how much of a royal pain in the ass it may be. And oh, do it be."

"We can't afford to say no regardless," Sam replies. He sets down his burger. "Trust me, nobody is less happy about this whole thing than I am. But the fact remains that Gabriel is still an Archangel with powers that are nothing to sneeze at, and we need all the help we can get."

"Yeah, well, despite being depressingly outnumbered, this is still a Class A Shitty Idea, and I want that in writing so I can say I told you so when we get tricked by the, y'know, Trickster." Dean takes an aggressive bite out of his meal. "I wouldn't trust that slippery bastard farther than I could throw him."

"Dean-o, for a man who believes in angels, you have shockingly little faith." There's a gun in Gabriel's face before he can even finish speaking. "Now, now, we all know that's not going to do anything."

Dean snorts. "Word of advice? Don't pop out of nowhere in a room full of hunters if you don't want to be looking down the barrel-end of a gun, then, bud."

"Relax." Gabriel stretches, catlike, and rolls his shoulders with a crack. "I'm here to help. Cross my heart."

Neither brother seems to find Gabriel's word all that convincing, and Castiel can't blame them. 

"Oh, yeah?" Dean snarls. "That's a big change from what you said last time. Sit back and play our roles, let the angels ride our asses like the one-trick ponies we are. Anything to get it over and done with already, right?"

Gabriel sneers. "I know what I said, since I was, funny enough, the one saying it. No need for a recap."

"Then why change your tune? Thinking shacking up with us is gonna end this whole mess faster?"

"Actually, yes," Gabriel says. He smiles, and it's a smile that immediately sets the room on edge, Castiel included. In Heaven, angels in the lower ranks were expected to show their betters the respect they were due. While Castiel has rebelled, old habits die hard. "That's exactly what I'm thinking."

Dean's eyes narrow. "And why's that?"

Gabriel hums. "Let's just say, I saw something. Something that gave me a glimmer of hope about this cosmic shitshow."

"Saw what?"

Gabriel's smile creeps wider. "Now that would be telling."

"Fuck you," Dean spits. "We can't afford to be cryptic right now. I dunno if you've noticed, but the whole world is ending."

"And whose fault is that?" Gabriel spits back, acerbic. "We _can_ afford to be cryptic, because _I_ can't afford to tell you. This information, well, top secret would be an understatement. If even so much as a whisper of it it fell into the wrong hands, it would be even more of a God damned catastrophe than the Apocalypse. Now that's saying something, don'tcha think?"

"And you don't trust us to keep this information between us," Sam interrupts, sadly. His broad shoulders sag.

"Aww, don't give me those puppy eyes, kiddo," Gabriel croons. "Actions have consequences. You think I got this far without being paranoid? We're doing this my way because my track record does _not_ actually include kickstarting the End of Times. But never fear, my way is going to start looking a lot nicer from now on. No TV Land, no time loops."

Sam crosses his arms. "And why should we believe you? Your track record may not look like letting Lucifer out of his cage, sure, but it does look like lie after lie after lie."

"Because I'm putting my ass on the line for you," Gabriel shoots back. "Do I seem like someone who does that often?"

"Don't seem like someone to do it at all," Dean mutters, under his breath. Gabriel sends him a sharp look.

"So you won't tell us why you're here," Sam says, grudging acceptance seeping into his dejected tone. "But you'll be helping us out?"

Gabriel's smile turns salacious, which is unfortunately much more comforting and familiar to witness. "Of course I'll protect my darling moose in distress." 

"Gabriel," Castiel begins, exasperated.

"I will, I swear it. You can count on me, little bro." He places a hand over his chest. "The Winchesters now officially have two guardian angels. You have an extra set of wings to help manage the little rascals, Cassie. Run yourself less ragged, won't you?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm losing my Grace, Gabriel. I am not 'running' myself any more 'ragged' than usual."

"You're losing it because you've been disconnecting yourself from the Host, not because Daddy's put you in the angelic timeout corner. Even I'm not as powerful as I once was, not after leaving. But I always had Pagan worshippers for a little pick-me-up when I needed one." Gabriel shrugs. "Birds of a feather flock together, and we angels need our flocks. You should start to regain your power as soon as you feel like you're able to rely on your family again. We both should."

Castiel blinks, and the words register with a lancing pain like a physical wound. Regret and shame course through him, and his vessel's throat constricts and clicks as he swallows down the torrent of emotion. Dean having little faith in Heaven is hardly tragic, given he never had any to lose. But for Castiel, being confronted with just how far his family has fallen in his esteem is a stark reminder of how dire things have become. 

Dean perks up. "Cas'll get his mojo back?"

"I didn't know it worked like that," Sam says. 

"Nor did I," Castiel replies.

"It's both good news and bad news," Gabriel continues. "The good news is that self-actualising power only needs blood, sweat, tears, and a whole lotta determination to be reliable, and we're probably the four most stubborn assholes in the world right now. The bad news is that Castiel's Fall didn't start because Daddy Dearest was coming out of hiding to try and clean up the mess the kiddos made while he was out buying cigarettes. He is still as MIA as ever."

"I wouldn't call that bad news," Sam says. "It means God isn't supporting the Apocalypse and punishing Cas for helping us stop it."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "He's not _not_ supporting it, either. Which means it's ultimately up to this ragtag band of misfits to singlehandedly stop the end of the world. And no offence, but three boneheaded idiots and one sexy son of a bitch against all the forces of Heaven and Hell? Call me a Debbie Downer, but those don't seem like great odds to me."

"Oh, thanks." Dean scowls. "Why are you joining Team Free Will if you don't even think we'll win? Didn't look like you had a death wish back in that warehouse."

"I didn't say that." Gabriel smirks. "I said the odds don't look great. I didn't say it was impossible. And if I'm right about what I think I am, we may just have a chance in Hell, boys."

"The hell's that supposed to mean, asshole?"

This gets him a wink. "You'll see soon enough. Patience is one of Dad's favourite virtues, you know."

For a moment, Castiel thinks he's going to have to step in to stop Dean from throwing a punch. But Dean unclenches his fists and turns away. "Whatever," he says. "Can't make it much worse anyway, can you?"

"That's the spirit!" Gabriel singsongs, grating. He kicks off his shoes, baring a pair of candycane socks, and flops inelegantly onto the bed. "Now, who wants to see what's on pay-per-view?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we begin with gratuitous amounts of gabriel, as all fics should
> 
> im ean what lol
> 
> Getting my ass in gear to update again soon!


	2. Changing Tune

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, shit, thanks, Mexico. TJLC 2: Electric Boogaloo. 
> 
> We are officially at 5x13! Dean and Michael interact in The Song Remains the Same, so that is naturally where I diverge.

Gabriel proves about as unobtrusive as expected, which is to say, not at all. The brothers make a valiant attempt at ignoring him, but as Castiel has rapidly come to realise, ignoring Gabriel is at the very least close to, if not outright, impossible. His vessel has short stature, but his presence still manages to take up the whole room. Typical of an Archangel, of course, but Castiel hasn’t had much experience with the higher ranks. He’s spent more time with Archangels now, at the beginning of the End, than he has in the entirety of his many eons of previous existence.

It’s not proving the honoured privilege it’s made out to be. Then again, he doesn’t know why he still manages to be surprised at Heaven’s lies, after having to deal with so many of them.

“Didn’t you say you were going to help us when you decided to become our stowaway?” Dean asks. He’s lounging on one of their motel beds, parallel to Gabriel’s own. He doesn’t look up from the television to glare, but it’s clear from the scowl on his face that he’s no less annoyed to be harbouring an Archangel today than he was yesterday. “I’m seeing a whole lotta freeloading and not much helping.”

“You’ve got the patience of a saint, Dean-o,” Gabriel says, casually. “It’s charming.”

"Excuse me for feeling like the clock's ticking." Dean huffs. "Maybe that's because it is, and time's running out faster than we can damn well keep up."

"I know. Trust me, I know," Gabriel placates, raising his hands. "But if I make one mistake with this, even a small one, this whole situation we're in now? Well, you might as well call it a tropical vacation compared to what we'd be in for next."

Dean tilts his head, as baffled as Castiel feels. "Why take that kind of risk?"

"Because the reward for doing it right is ending the Apocalypse for good. As in, forever. A permanent safeguard against another pair of morons pissing all over the proverbial floor in the future."

"What, just like that?" Dean says, incredulous. "All of this'll be over?"

"Yep," Gabriel replies, popping the 'P'. "So you can see why I'm not taking a page out of your book and rushing into it headfirst like a reckless jackass."

"Hey," Dean growls. "It's not like me and Sammy knew it would end up playing out like this. We would've appreciated a head's up about, y'know, the part where we could potentially end the fucking world. And before you try to tell me about the Mystery Spot or any of your other sorry excuses for teaching us a lesson, I meant a head's up that wasn't just a whole steaming heap of cryptic bullshit."

"I was trying to do it for your own good," Gabriel says, rough. Dean has the luxury of human eyes to miss the way Gabriel's wings flare out in a warning. Part of Castiel is threatened; the other is annoyed at the display of childish temper. "Frankly, I thought you two needed a reality check, and I wasn't wrong. You can't help those that can't help themselves, and I wanted you to know just what that meant in this shitshow."

"Which was that we should accept our destiny and shove our free will where the sun don't shine." Dean chuckles, dark. His teeth flash as he gives an ugly sneer. "You should've known better than to think that would work on us. We're hunters. We don't do destiny." At this, he bares his teeth fully on a grin just an edge away from feral. "There's no fate but what you make, ain't that right, Sam? Cas?"

"Oh, get off your high horse, Sarah Connor." Gabriel rolls his eyes, every one of them. Castiel doesn't often pay much attention to the stark contrast between what he sees and what humans see, but the way Gabriel still expresses himself so fully in his true form, even when funnelled into a vessel, has caught his notice. Nothing about Gabriel is reined in, every move an elaborate, theatrical production designed to attract as much attention as possible. To hide in the spotlight by shining distractingly brighter. "So goddamn self-righteous. It's not that simple for us Celestial beings. We don't get the luxury of choice, not when we're taught from the moment we come into existence that we're just cogs in Daddy's well-oiled machine. Old habits die very, very hard in this family."

"I'm sorry you and so many of your angel buddies were brainwashed by the douchebags upstairs," Dean says smartly. Gabriel scrunches up his nose at the unsympathetic description. "Of all people, you should get why we need to flip them the bird and stop playing by their rules, not lie down and take it. Or are you gonna try and tell me you left Heaven because you wanted a change in scenery?"

"No," Gabriel says. "I had my reasons, and a lot of them probably sound a whole lot like yours. That's why I'm here, not calling it a loss and booking it halfway across the galaxy." He looks away. "Shocker, but I changed my mind."

"And we're glad, we really are," Sam says, ever the diplomat, the complement to his brother’s confrontational nature. "But surely you can see why Dean and I weren't about to welcome you with open arms back there. Even Cas had a grace period, pun not intended."

"I don't expect you to trust me." Gabriel sighs. "Not right now, anyway. But at least trust that I'm a self-serving son of a bitch, and I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't in my best interests. And I think you know me well enough to guess that my best interests include keeping the party going for as long as possible, don't you, boys? I want to make it out of this alive."

"And if making it out alive meant selling our sorry asses out to Lucifer?" Dean demands. "What then?"

Gabriel shakes his head. "He wouldn't spare me for doing him any favours. The brother I loved and who loved me in turn is long gone. I can barely recognise him anymore."

Castiel is somewhat glad he never had the chance to know the Morningstar before his Fall. He met the Archangels only a few times, though they are seared into his memory. He had been in awe, then. Lucifer, the playful, shining beacon, and Gabriel, the little brother who trailed him in admiration. Michael, reserved and stern, the sensible commander of the Garrison, and Raphael, who did everything he could to follow in his footsteps. 

Castiel had known Gabriel the best. Lucifer spent a great deal of time on Earth, exploring his family's beloved creation. Michael and Raphael had too many pressing responsibilities to involve themselves in the affairs of the lower rungs of the Host. But Gabriel, as Castiel remembered him, had always been warm and friendly, mingling with his siblings as if he were any other angel. They had not spoken often, but Gabriel shared Castiel's vast curiosity for all of the life on Earth, and occasionally they would share their observations. 

Simpler, more innocent times. 

Both everything and nothing has changed. 

Dean winces. Castiel knows he and Sam have not always seen eye-to-eye, but never once did one give up on the other. It's one of Dean's deepest fears, wrought deep into his soul. Castiel had felt how strongly Dean was committed to his family when he had cradled that soul and raised him from Hell; it was something he had found both relatable and admirable. "Sorry," he says. "But we can't afford to trust easy. Not in this line of work."

Gabriel sighs. "I know," he says. Then, he shakes himself off. "But yes, I can be useful. Case in point, you boys are about to get a call. Answer it, and remember: her heart's in the right place, but you can't trust her. Not that she trusts you, either. Especially you, Castiel."

Castiel reels. Unfortunately, he knows a lot of people who don't trust him. He is, as Lucifer himself said, the second most hated angel alive. Only Satan, Prince of Lies, stands above him. He can't help but feel Heaven's judgement is somewhat skewed.

"Wait, who?" Dean asks. "You're gonna give us more than that, right?"

"Anael," Gabriel says. "She's got a real doozy of an idea in her head right now. Take the call and I'll fill you in on what you need to know after. Or you can take a guess. Not too many angels proficient in lying, not that that matters at all anyway. Nobody can outcon the conman, now can they?"

Dean opens his mouth, likely to make a barbed comment, but his cellphone starts to ring from across the room before he can form any words. His eyes narrow, and he gestures at Sam to throw it over. 

"Speak of the Devil." Gabriel smirks. "Or the Angel, in this case."

Sam looks hesitantly at the phone. Castiel feels compelled to tell him that Grace cannot travel by cellular network. Eventually, he tosses it Dean's way.

"Hello?"

Dean presses a button and the speakers crackle to life. "Hello, Dean. I tried to reach you in your dreams, but I found myself locked out. I can't seem to find you when you're awake, either. You're a hard man to find, it seems."

At this, Gabriel winks obnoxiously and mouths "you're welcome". For some reason, Dean flushes a light pink and scratches the back of his neck. "Courtesy of a resident guardian angel," he says. "Anna, it's good to hear from you. Where've you been?"

"Castiel didn't tell you?"

Castiel feels his vessel's stomach twist, shame crawling up his throat like bile.

Dean blinks. "Tell me what?"

"Where I've been. Of course not, why would he?"

Dean's narrowed gaze lands on Castiel like an iron-hot brand. "Where've you been?"

"Prison. Upstairs. All of the torture, twice the self-righteousness."

"Why wouldn't he have told us where you were?"

"Because he's the one who turned me in," Anna snaps. Dean's ensuing silence speaks volumes. "Don't be so shocked. He was always a good little soldier, did anything under orders."

"I didn't know. Are you okay?"

"No, and I don't have long. I broke out. Barely." The pitch of her voice rises, tingeing it with panic. "They're looking for me, and if they find me-"

"Okay," Dean soothes. "What do you need?"

"Meet me, 225 Industrial. And please, just hurry."

The line goes dead. Dean's stare is razor sharp. 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "That, folks, is a classic example of how to set a trap."

"Why shouldn't we trust her?"

"Gabriel is right," Castiel says. "Angels do not just 'escape' from Heaven. If she's here, they're allowing her to be."

"You turned her in." The weight of Dean's disapproval makes him sick. 

"It was a mistake. I never thought to question my orders, not until you. I'm sorry I couldn't have questioned them sooner. Anael was a competent leader and a good friend, and she didn't deserve my betrayal."

"That's more than you can say for most of the head honchos upstairs," Gabriel offers.

Dean groans. "Tell me something I don't know." His eyes soften. "Cas, if anyone understands following orders to try and keep your family happy, it's me and Sam. I understand why you did it. Hell, I brought Sammy back into this mess, which is a prison in its own way-"

"Dean." Sam sucks in a breath. "You know I don't blame you for that. Dad went missing, you didn't know what else to do."

Dean smiles, infinitely sad. "I'm still sorry. I never wanted it to end up like this, but here we are anyway, staring down the end of the world. Cas didn't want Anna tortured, I didn't want you hopped up on demon blood." He shrugs. "I mean, you know what they say, huh? The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. In this case, that's a bit more literal than I'd like, but, hey. At the very least, we've both learned our lesson."

"Since I royally fucked up teaching you the easy way, I'm doing what I can to help you fix what happened when you learnt the hard way," Gabriel says. "And I want to do the same for Anael. I always liked her. She had some fire in her, not like the wet blankets I saw pencil pushing most of the time. That's why I'm going with you."

Dean side-eyes him. "No offence, but why would she listen to you? If she has beef with the feathery douches upstairs, she won't stop to listen to one of the highest ranking feathery douches of them all."

"Ah, but I'm a rebel." Gabriel wags a finger. Dean's eyes follow it absently, then he snaps out of it and frowns. "And I'm a rebel with a cause, too. Her cause. She's just like us, after all, sticking it to our Old Man in the only way an angel knows how -- meddling. Luckily for her, I know a much better way of meddling than the harebrained scheme she's cooked up."

"Your experiment," Castiel guesses.

The experiment he still knows almost nothing about.

"Got it in one. Anael's rare viewpoint on humanity is perfect for my experiment, and I think she'll agree with me when she finds out why."

"Oh, great," Dean grouses. "More cryptic bullshit."

"Relax, you won't be in the dark for much longer. I can't play my cards right if I show my hand too early. You've swindled enough drunken bar-goers to know all about that, haven't you, Dean?"

Dean’s frown turns to a scowl. "You say that like it's not in your job description."

"Oh, I know. Don't hate the player, hate the game." Gabriel claps his shoulder with a loud smack. Dean shrugs it off in disgust. "And we're all in this room today because we want to take back the board."

"You really think Anna can help us?" Sam asks. "Another angel on the run?"

"Don't underestimate an angel on the run, Sammy," Gabriel says serenely. "It's what's gotten me this far."

* * *

Castiel and Gabriel share the weight of the brothers between them when flying to meet Anna. Not that it's necessary, he can feel his strength returning steadily, just as Gabriel had said it would. It makes him question just how much about Heaven he doesn't truly know, but he's also grateful. He can't help the way he needs to, aches deep in his bones to, not when his Grace is melting away like the last touch of snow in the dawning spring. 

Dean and Sam land a little unsteadily, unused to the difference in balance with an extra set of wings. Castiel and Gabriel bracket their shoulders, instinctively propping them up as they regain their bearings. An angel's true, fundamental nature shining through: to protect humanity when it's at its most desperate. 

Not that he can say many of his kin are upholding that doctrine any longer. Disdain for humanity is what fractured Heaven and caused Lucifer's Fall, and it's a stain that still hasn't washed free. Castiel may not understand many of Dean's references to contemporary human culture, but he has knowledge of the classics. _Out, damned spot! Out, I say._

_One, two. Why, then, ’tis time to do ’t. Hell is murky!_

Castiel gives thought as to whether William Shakespeare was a prophet. Or perhaps Heaven shares a curse previously thought unique to humanity only. History that's doomed to repeat.

Anael stares with wide eyes, shocked into inaction, an infinite moment of vulnerability unfolding before Castiel's gaze. Then, it shatters. Her wings draw tightly around her, ready to flee, or to fight. Despite being blind to the movement, Dean seems to sense her flightiness regardless. "Wait!" he calls. "Please!"

Because it is Dean who asks, and not anyone else, Anna stills. 

"Thank you," he says, oblivious to the power his pleas hold. "We're not here to send you back to the celestial slammer, I swear. I guess you recognise-"

"Gabriel," Anna breathes. 

"In the flesh." Gabriel preens, spins on his heels. "I don't look a day over ten million, do I? Come on, admit it."

Her voice trembles slightly as she asks, "What's going on?"

"Your plan. It's not gonna work. The Winchesters are under our protection for a reason. Yes, _all_ of them." Anna grimaces, caught out. "I know what you think you're doing and why you think you're doing it, but trust me, if there's one thing this whole mess has taught me? It's that Heaven needs to follow a working moral compass more, not less."

Anna cringes away, eyes desperately avoiding Sam and Dean, who look on in complete incomprehension. "I wasn't-"

"Totally on the wrong track? No, you weren't. Well, okay, you _were,_ in terms of execution, double meaning fully intended, but not in terms of trying to axe this shitstorm once and for all."

Anna's wandering gaze immediately snaps back to Gabriel. "You're not with them? Your brothers?"

"Don't look so disbelieving." Gabriel huffs. "I love them, really, I do, but they've currently got their heads stuck dangerously too far up their own cosmic asses. They're so caught up in trying to do whatever it takes to impress our absent Father, they're blind to the consequences that come with getting it wrong."

"And you agree, then," Anna hedges. "That they're getting it wrong."

"Hoo, boy. Wrong is probably an understatement at this point." Gabriel's eyes close, expression briefly revealing the full extent of his weariness. "In my time away from Heaven, I lost my family. But I gained a lot of other things. Sex cults in my name, probably a few extra pounds, a whole lotta bad attitude and disrespect for authority, yadda, yadda. But most importantly, I gained some Goddamn perspective. Without context, following Daddy's orders down to the letter seems like a fantastic idea. With context, the context of actually being here and now, in the present and experiencing what it means to live on Earth, you come to notice God works in mysterious ways."

"Oh, you gotta be freaking kidding me," Dean says, words dripping with revulsion. 

Gabriel holds up a hand. "Hold your horses before you start chomping at the bit there, champ." He snorts. "I'm about as fond of that phrase as you are. But as much as it sucks, you know it's true as much as I do, don't try and deny it. Dad is an ambiguous, vague, cryptic, secretive, squirrelly _bastard,_ and I honestly can't tell you if he said what he actually meant once in my entire time in Heaven. So who the hell are we to think we can definitively interpret anything he's told us? And that's coming from me, His literal messenger."

For all his millennia of existence, Castiel has been told never to question his Father, only obey. Angels are meant to obey no one but God, and His word is absolute. It is gospel. For he is the Lord thy God, and thou shalt not have any strange gods before Him.

And now he stands in a room with defectors. Defectors from the Natural Order. By all rights, they are each of them abominations in some way or another. And yet for the first time in those many millennia, he doesn't feel alone. 

"Alright," Anna says with a small smile. "With that level of blasphemy, I believe you. What's this about a better plan?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, jumping back into writing these dorks is such a nostalgic feeling. How’s the characterisation holding up so far? Trying not to let my rustiness show. (Do be gentle, though.)


	3. The Apple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some actual plot moves along! Those who know me for introspective waffling and bullshitting are probably very surprised I’ve managed to do this. We’re almost at 5x14, which means we’re about to have My Bloody Valentine: the Redux, and I get to write weird cravings and make unsubtle allegories to dirty, dirty angel sex. See you all in Hell btw.
> 
> Both Destiel and TFL in this chapter. So you can see how I’m clearly getting prepared for all the blasphemy already.

"So, let me get this straight," Sam starts. "You were going to go back in time and _kill_ our parents?"

Dean crosses his arms. "Oh, that's it. Any sympathy for you having to deal with Cas' dumb ass, gone. How the hell did you think that was gonna help?"

Anna still has a hunted look in her eyes, hasn't quite settled down yet, despite being surrounded by capable fighters. "Look, Dean, I'm sorry. But you don't know what it's like up there. Did you or Sam run across any cults in your time as hunters?"

"Yeah. Ugh." Dean shivers, dramatic. "Cults. Almost as bad as witches."

"The way everyone talks about you two, your destiny as vessels, the Apocalypse, it's just like a cult. I've spent all this time watching them work themselves into a frenzy over it. I thought the only way to get it to stop would be to change that destiny before it could begin."

Castiel can't say the comparison is too far off. The sheer dedication Heaven has to wiping out all life on Earth unsettled him long before this. Before he officially committed any acts of treason. The idea of defacing the gift their Father, his Father, had so lovingly crafted for them felt off from the start. 

"Stop us from ever being born," Sam says in dawning realisation. "Would it have worked?"

Dean whips around. "Sammy!" he admonishes. "Don't you dare start talking like that, you hear me? I thought we agreed, it's ride or die on Team Free Will. You going back on me now, huh?"

"No, Dean," Sam promises, contrite. "I just…"

"It could never be that easy, not in my family," Gabriel says. "So, no. Don't sweat it there, okay, Sam? It's better you're alive, trust me."

"Then, you have a different plan," Anna says. "One you actually think will work. Care to fill me in?"

"I'm afraid Judge Gabe needs to call for a sidebar on this one, boys," Gabriel says. "Private angel business. Excuse us for a sec, won't you?"

"How long are you gonna keep hiding things from us, man?" Dean isn't the begging type, but the desperate look in his eyes conveys everything he's too proud to voice. Castiel's wings twitch as he has to tamp down on the sudden and bizarre urge to wrap them around Dean like a shield.

Gabriel doesn't seem unaffected either. "You're killing me here with the puppy eyes. Not much longer, okay? Promise. Just don't look at us like that, it's making the angels on your shoulder melt. We may be fierce warriors of God, but we get all soft and gooey inside if we see a human in need of protecting." There's a pause. "Well, we're supposed to."

"Gabriel," Castiel warns.

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Don't emasculate your precious charge, it ruffles his feathers." He smirks to himself. "Heh."

"Oh, screw you," Dean grumbles. "Enjoy your damn cryptic asshole support group meetup, dickwad."

"Will do, Dean-o." 

"We'll be at the nearest diner. C'mon, Sam, let's blow this dump. I want some scrambled eggs."

* * *

Once the brothers' footsteps have faded and the Impala's engine has rumbled to life, Anna turns to Gabriel in concern. "Why do we need to keep the Winchesters in the dark? We all know how well that usually goes."

Gabriel chuckles, nervous. "Uh, yeah, trust me, if there was any other way, I'd take it in a heartbeat. But there isn't, and we have to keep them safe first and foremost. If they knew what I'm about to tell you, someone might try and pry it out of their fragile human minds."

"And we can afford to be collateral," Anna says with a bitter smile.

"Me included, much as I hate to say it," Gabriel assures. "Just how it's gotta be in this mess, nothing personal."

Anna sighs. "So, what did you need me for?"

"It's all business with you, Anael." Gabriel pouts. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Back where it's safe to have one," Anna replies snidely.

"Point taken," he concedes. "As you might've guessed, I didn't come down to greet you personally just because I missed your company, as lovely as it is."

She lets out a startled laugh. "You're quite the flatterer."

"Let's just put it this way. You, Anael, are uniquely qualified to help oversee my experiment."

"What experiment?"

Castiel can feel the impatience radiating from her. He realises it hasn't been that long since she managed to free herself from Heaven's clutches. To her, the feeling of being prey under a thousand watchful eyes probably won't fade for some time. 

It still hasn't fully left Castiel. 

"One that involves your area of expertise." Gabriel waves her away, as if he can bat the line of questioning from her mouth. "I'm testing a hypothesis. Nobody else seems to have noticed it yet, and it's priority numero uno that we keep it that way. We need to be the ones to confirm it. Nobody else. Capiche?"

"Spit it out, Gabriel," Anna says. 

He shifts, another delay tactic. "You might want to sit down for this, both of you."

Castiel tilts his head. "Why would we need to be sitting?"

"Oh, for the love of-" Gabriel throws up his hands. "Dean's Fallen. There, I said it. Happy now?"

Everything Castiel knows tilts on its axis. He feels dizzy, disoriented, like he's in freefall. James Novak's heart begins to race in his chest.

"Fallen?" Anna repeats blankly. 

"That's what I said, yep."

Disbelief. The implications are hitting them both with all the force of a freight train. "You mean, like _I-_ "

" _Now_ you're getting it."

How could it be possible that he missed the mark of Grace on Dean's soul when he raised him from Perdition? How could Castiel have failed so miserably? He was foolish. He'd thought he'd executed the task perfectly. Save for the brand on his shoulder, Dean had risen from the Pit impeccable. Castiel had known him, recreated him, down to the last molecule. 

Or so he'd thought. 

"Castiel," Anna says, sensing his sudden distress.

"Cut it out, Cas," Gabriel says. "Stop beating yourself up over this. It's not your fault, there's no way you could've known. The Grace I sensed in him was so faint I thought I was imagining things at first. It took an Archangel to even so much as get a glimpse at it."

"But how?" Castiel asks in a rush. "How can he be Fallen?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Gabriel's brow furrows. "How's and why's aside, there's something else."

Anna's eyes are wide. "You're seriously telling us there's more than that?" she gasps. Castiel shares her incredulity. 

"Eh, sort of. I'm not sure about it yet. And I'm sorry, but until I know for sure, I can't spill the beans." Gabriel, for all his unbearable flippancy, does seem genuinely apologetic. "Either way, Dean being Fallen prevents him from getting his ass ridden into Armageddon. But, as Luci and Raph have shown us, a True Vessel being off the table isn't enough to convince them to call this whole thing off." He shrugs. "Still, it buys us time. Time we needed, like, yesterday. And if I'm right about what I think I am…" He trails off, a myriad of expressions crossing his face in quick succession.

"If you're right?" Anna presses.

Gabriel looks up, earnest and, for the first time Castiel's seen in eons, blessedly, innocently hopeful. For a moment, the image of the Archangel he once was seems superimposed on Castiel's vision. "We just might get all the time in the world." A scant few seconds later, the expression shutters and returns to Gabriel's default -- closed-off and smarmy. "Anyway. The Grace I saw… even if it isn't Dean's, or it is and he's too much of a stubborn yahoo to take it back, we have to find it. It's powerful. Boy, is it powerful. As in, if it gets into the wrong hands, shit will have officially hit the fan for Team Free Will kinda powerful."

"Team Free Will," Anna says, dry. 

"All the credit goes to Dean for that delightful witticism." Gabriel scoffs.

Still reeling, Castiel manages to get out, "The Grace is powerful enough to mask its own presence to all celestial beings except an Archangel?"

"Bingo," Gabriel agrees. Castiel sits down on the motel bed, looks down at his vessel's palms. He doesn't really see them. "Yeah," Gabriel says. "My thoughts exactly."

* * *

The next few days have Castiel staring at Dean as if he were a stranger. It wasn't too long ago that Castiel was, in fact, beholding Dean for the first time, this precious soul that Heaven had entrusted him to guard and to guide. Castiel had plucked him from the rack with all the ignorance of what was to come as Eve had when she plucked the apple from the Tree of Knowledge, and then he had nurtured that soul, scarred and scared as it was, back to health. The one act that caused a rebellion.

Was Dean the forbidden fruit? Or had Castiel's desperate need to connect to another of his kin reached out with poison hands? Who was the butcher here, and who the lamb to the slaughter?

Either way, Castiel cannot bring himself to regret it. Something has gone deeply wrong in his Father's kingdom, and he can no longer sit idly by to watch it rot.

Still, he feels unsure on his feet, his whole worldview sent spinning for the umpteenth time. He really should have become accustomed to it the second time around. He peers at Dean and tries desperately to see any hint of what he may once have been. But he can't catch a glimpse. Whatever Gabriel saw eludes him. 

Same sandy hair, run through and spiked with gel. Same dusting of freckles, each of which Castiel had painted onto his skin when he was carried from Perdition. Same green eyes, bright like the ferns Castiel used to watch unfurl in the morning sunlight when he wandered Earth so many lifetimes ago. Same bow legs, muscles lean from so often running for his life. 

Every strand of DNA had been unwoven and rewoven at Castiel's many fingertips. Every atom he had examined with all his countless eyes. Each of Castiel's mouths had breathed life back into the essence of Dean Winchester so that he could take physical form again. When he walked into a room, every single one of Castiel's heads turned and leant him their rapt attention. 

And in all this, he had overlooked the smallest and most significant detail, time and time again.

Dean was one of the Fallen. Castiel had never sculpted Dean's wings because whoever he had once been had ripped them from his back.

* * *

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Dean hisses. "Look, dude, I know you have issues with personal space and staring creepily, but this is kinda pushing it."

Castiel is jolted from his reverie. "I've been observing you, Dean."

"Uh, yeah, I've noticed." Dean snorts. "What's with it? Is this some kinda experiment thing?"

"Yes and no," Castiel replies easily. 

"Okay, that's helpful. Care to elaborate there, Casanova, or are we leaving it weird and cryptic?"

"It _is_ for the experiment," Castiel says. "But also because I am curious. Did you know I crafted your body for you when I was tasked with raising you from Hell? I know every inch of you, Dean, and yet sometimes I wonder if I know you at all."

Dean's cheeks begin to redden. His eyes have gone very wide, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks in confusion. "Uh," he says. "You can't just say stuff like that, Jesus."

"Why not?"

"You 'know every inch of me'. Sounds freaky." Dean shakes his head. Despite the chastisement, his blush is only deepening. "Anyway, freaky shit aside, I'm pretty sure you do know me. You've had my back, I've had yours. We're a good team, work well together. That usually requires some serious coordination."

"I'm attempting to say that you've been very unexpected. For Gabriel, for Heaven, for most. For me."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "I'm gonna take that as a compliment."

"It's meant as one," Castiel reassures. "You taught multiple angels the meaning of free will. Not even Gabriel seemed to fully grasp the concept until he met you."

"Only you and him seem to think that's a good thing."

"Anna agrees with us. So does Sam."

"Uh, yeah, because Sam's my little brother. He's contractually obligated to back me up on this."

"If only that were the case in Heaven," Castiel says wryly.

"Would definitely be nice not to have to deal with all this bullshit, yeah, but I wouldn't hold my breath. Don't think any of the Archangels have agreed on anything before in their lives." He chuckles, small and cynical. Nothing like the surprised laughter Castiel can pull from him by actually landing a joke, or the loud guffaws Sam can effortlessly elicit after years of familiarity with Dean's weakspots. It sounds wrong in his throat. "They don't really seem like the type."

"No," Castiel agrees sadly. "They don't."

* * *

"So," Dean drawls. "It's been a few days of me and Sammy looking for cases, and we found something that might be one. I mean, it's not every day you and your date try and eat each other to death."

"Yum," Gabriel says, obnoxiously. Dean chucks the motel's TV remote at his head, which he catches easily with two fingers. 

"Is this gonna be the game plan? We carry on, saving people, hunting things, business as usual, and you guys just tag along?"

"There are a few things I need to check out along the way," Gabriel adds. "But otherwise, yeah, that's the idea."

Dean shoots him a puzzled glance. "And your plan to stop the Apocalypse? How's that coming along?"

"Step one is to keep doing what you're doing, which is why I haven't said anything." Gabriel shrugs. "We have to track the Doom Patrol down before we can think about stopping them."

"Autocannibalism seem weird enough to be related?" Sam asks. 

"Hmmm," Gabriel hums. "Taking a bite out of your date, and not in any kinda fun way? Sure, that fits the bill."

"Peachy," Dean says. "It'll be cramped, but we should all fit in the car."

Castiel is unsurprised to hear Dean still intends to drive. Gabriel and Anna, on the other hand, share a look -- Gabriel's horrified, Anna's simply confused. "It's no use trying to protest," Castiel tells them. "Dean doesn't enjoy flying, and he enjoys our Grace being used to carry his vehicle even less."

Dean holds a hand to his heart, makes a show of being touched. Castiel recognises it as sarcasm, though he doesn't understand why. He only stated a fact. "See, Cas? You know me so well."

"I'm going to have to sit this one out, I'm afraid. It's a shame," Anna says. She stares at Dean, meaningful. Castiel has the abrupt feeling he's missing something. "I have good memories of that car."

Dean sends her a lascivious grin. "Glad to hear it."

"Oh, what," Gabriel whines, "so she gets to have hot car sex for siding with the Winchesters, but I don't?"

Sam snorts. Dean makes a gagging noise. "Keep dreaming," he says. 

"Cassie, did you get hot car sex?"

Castiel blinks. "No. How is that a requirement?"

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Gabriel," Anna scolds, but her eyes reveal she's amused, even somewhat fond. "And it's misplaced. I have other responsibilities now. There are other angels Castiel and I know, ones who would be willing to rebel, and ones who were already well on the way before I was captured. I need to locate them. We have to stick together now more than ever. Start organising."

"Ever the Garrison leader, Anna," Gabriel teases. 

"You know it," she says. "Take care of yourselves, okay? Make sure you stop them from doing anything too stupid, Castiel."

Castiel nods solemnly. As much of an affront as it might be to his only allies and friends, he can't deny they have a frustrating habit of recklessness. 

"Man," Dean grouses. "You act like we think we're on Jackass."

"No," Gabriel says. "More like Pinky and the Brain. And you're Pinky."

Castiel watches on in bemusement. The reference is lost on him, but Dean seems deeply offended. Sam bites down on a smile. "Does that make me the Brain?" he asks. Dean gives him a nasty look, which bounces off him, ignored or unnoticed.

"Uh, no, I'm obviously the Brain here." Gabriel's condescending tone makes Sam bristle as much as his brother. "You two are the brawn. Sexy, sexy brawn, but still brawn."

Dean jumps up out of the bed, run-down mattress springs creaking dangerously. "Did you just call us your eye candy?"

Gabriel smirks nonchalantly. "Whatcha gonna do about it, big guy?"

"Oh, it's on, shortstack. Sammy, grab the Holy Oil, we're gonna deep fry us an angel."

"I don't think any of you are the brains here," Anna says sardonically. "You know how to call me if you need me."

"Pray to the toll free angel rebellion line," Dean confirms, fight momentarily forgotten. "Hey. Don't forget to stay safe yourself, okay? Feels like something crazier shows up each day. Case in point, this little shindig."

"I'm planning on it." Anna gives the four of them one last warm smile before steeling herself to return to the fray. Her wings, glimmering sunset red and orange, stretch out as she prepares to take off. In the corner of his vision, Castiel sees Dean shift away, as if to accommodate a sudden change in space. He darts a glance to Gabriel, who meets his eyes with a slight nod. "Goodbye, boys," she says. "And good luck. We're all going to need it."


	4. Craving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of gore in this chapter and the rest covering 5x14 (this has grown into a beast of a thing already). I'm a forensics student, so I'm pretty immune to gross-out stuff and find it hard to judge what's disgusting or not, so I'll warn preemptively. It's Supernatural, so gore will pop up quite a bit. I'll tag accordingly, but never fear, this episode should be the worst it gets for a while, if you don't have the stomach for this stuff. 
> 
> Some angel visuals for you guys. [This](https://imgur.com/a/yax4ajC) gets the general gist of what I'm going for. The many faces will be explored more in-depth later, like when Dean gets his Grace back and is Weirded Out kind of later. I have some smartass metaphors to make about which angels get which animals as their God-given fursonas, because I am Insufferable(™). 
> 
> Also, I inch ever closer to my favourite fluff trope in this fandom: angelic cuddle piles.

Gabriel looks very put out to be doing anything the "old fashioned" way, and even more put out when the brothers relegate him to the backseat, but he clambers into the car anyway. 

Castiel finds the views of the American countryside aesthetically pleasing, but it's admittedly quite difficult to truly enjoy when the Apocalypse is dangling above their heads like the Sword of Damocles. Sam and Dean are excellent at compartmentalising, and the average human wouldn't be able to see anything but tranquility in the way they're sprawled out over the fifty-year-old leather, but Castiel is no average human. Frankly, he's not even an average angel. And he can tell from just the lines of their shoulders that the gravity of the situation hasn't been forgotten. 

Cornfields blur into more cornfields, endless stretches of empty land in every direction. Sam falls asleep between one beat and the next, snoring lightly against the window. The sound of the Impala's engine and faint rock music seems to lull both Winchesters like a lullaby. The only unfamiliar sound is the rustle of candy wrappers and occasional crunch of processed sugar between Gabriel's teeth, but neither brother's sense of peace seems disturbed. 

By hour four, Gabriel has gone through hundreds of chocolate bars, lollipops, gummy chews, and other brightly, artificially coloured sweets. Sam's cheek is still pressed to the window, hair falling into his eyes, but he stirs more often. He'll be waking up soon. 

For some reason, Castiel feels a sense of home. It's the first time he's felt anything resembling belonging since he first left Heaven. Something settles in his chest, a knot of tension gently untwisting to the backdrop of classic Americana.

Dean eyes Gabriel through the rearview mirror. "I don't know why you're not some kind of landwhale by now."

"Divine miracle," Gabriel says, mouth full of some mix of chemicals Castiel can't see the appeal to. He blows a bubble until it pops and licks his lips, staining them various shades of neon. 

"Ugh, you're way too enthusiastic about that crap. It's like a kid in a candy shop." Dean says this with a faint air of disgust. "Literally."

"An ancient, unknowable being in a candy shop," Gabriel corrects. 

"You never get any of the good stuff, man," Dean complains. "Dude, it's an excuse not to share, isn't it? Be honest."

"Maybe I like-," Gabriel pauses to read the wrapper of his latest conquest, "-'Grapefruit Galore' best."

"Uh huh," Dean says. "What was the one before that?"

"'Glorious Guava'!"

"Who the hell likes grapefruit or guava?" Dean takes one hand off the steering wheel to point an accusing finger at the backseat. "Nobody sane, I can promise you that."

"Oh, but we're all mad here, Dean-o."

"This ain't Wonderland, and I sure as hell ain't Alice." Dean hesitates, frowns. "Don't get any ideas."

"Too late," Gabriel tells him gleefully. "Besides, it's not like any of us would turn down whatever that caterpillar was smoking right about now. Armageddon is sorely lacking in the drugs department."

Sam snuffles from his spot against the glass. "We are not saving the world while high as a kite," he mumbles. "Trust me, I tried that. Didn't work."

"Spoken like a true California college student," Gabriel says, wistful and a little in awe.

"Bite me," Sam returns instantly, and goes back to sleep.

The car fades back into silence. Dean lets out a happy sigh and goes for the volume knob. He's interrupted before he can adjust. "Mom," Gabriel moans, making Dean's hackles rise, "are we there yet?"

"I hate you so much right now, you know that?"

He leans back, satisfied. "This is for making us drive."

"So much."

* * *

Castiel feels an immediate sense of _wrongness_ as soon as the car pulls into town. He can't quite place it, but something about the area is tainted. By what, he can only guess. 

He meets Gabriel's eyes, honey-gold already narrowed and suspicious. "Something's rotten in the state of Denmark," Gabriel says, leaning his upper half over the front bench and into the brothers' personal space. At least, Castiel assumes so, from the way the two look down at him in barely-veiled annoyance. Castiel is hardly an expert on personal space. "We're definitely headed in the right direction. Whatever's going on here, it's giving our angel senses the heebie-jeebies."

"Think you can figure out what's up?" Dean pushes Gabriel's head out of the way of the gearbox. "Track the scent?"

"As much I resent being treated like a glorified cadaver dog, yes." Gabriel slips back into his officially assigned seat. "We'll investigate with you, see what we can pick up."

"Okay," Dean says, drawing out the word hesitantly. "Just let Sam do all the talking, comprende?"

"I'm wounded you think so little of my charm."

"What charm?" Sam and Dean chorus.

Gabriel huffs and crosses his arms, dejected.

* * *

The angels are allowed to follow along with the investigation under the condition that they stay firmly out of sight. With a heavy heart, Gabriel agrees, but spends most of the interview with the victim's roommate looking aggrieved. Castiel is bad enough at human social graces that he breathes a sigh of relief at being spared another frustrating attempt. 

Instead, he gets to focus his energy on examining the crime scene. 

The dark stain of blood on the floor is the only reminder left of what happened here. Still, the atmosphere is oppressive. Whatever happened here can't be a one-off occurrence, the residue it's left behind is too powerful. 

Gabriel eyes it curiously, bending over to gawk at the smudges of blood and viscera like they might peel off the floor and tell him what happened. He raises an eyebrow, tilts his head, sniffs. It's animalistic, despite his protests at being called a cadaver dog. Castiel is thankful neither Dean nor Sam can currently see him, in his vessel or in his true form. Humans, especially hunters, don't like it when something that looks human doesn't act human. Monsters wearing their faces are what they're supposed to kill or run from, not befriend. 

Dread pools in his vessel's stomach at the thought of telling Dean that he, too, is only wearing a human face. 

Gabriel's six wings each shiver in instinctive revulsion. "I don't like it," he says. "Something about this doesn't feel right. I'm an expert on the usual cannibalistic wacko rituals, and this isn't one of them."

"Agreed." Castiel nods. "We should exercise caution."

"I'm always cautious!"

"Moreso than usual."

"As if I was gonna let the boys leave my sight anyway. I mean, _have_ you _seen_ them? Talk about a feast for the eyes. Don't know why my big bro is so against humanity. How could you say no to that?"

"That's a question not even Heaven seems able to answer," Castiel says dryly. 

Gabriel blinks up at him. "Did you just make a smartass remark, baby brother? Look at you, you're learning." He wipes away a fake tear. "I'm so proud. My little fledgling is leaving the nest."

"Thank you for your help, ma'am," Sam is saying. Castiel chooses to focus his attention on him instead. "If you remember anything else, anything at all, please give us a call."

He slips outside and turns to Dean, who shrugs. "Maybe they needed a virgin for some kinda ritual?"

"The guy wasn't, though," Sam counters.

"Dammit, good point." Dean sighs, runs a hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled. He wipes the gel that clings to his fingers off on his shirt. "Man, dunno how she did it. All that promise ring shit. Why the Hell does Jesus care if you get laid or not before you walk down the aisle? Is Jesus a sex pervert, Sam?"

"I dunno, if he's anything like the angel that told his mom she was expecting, he probably is."

Gabriel squawks. "I'll have you know I was a goodie-two-shoes back then. You think I just strolled on down to Earth and said, 'Hey, Mary, so there's this whole situation where God wants you to take His divine creampie so you can birth His son. Oh, you'd love to? Great, see you in nine months for the coming of the Messiah, baby, it's gonna be rad'?"

Sam doesn't miss a beat in replying, "So, that wasn't what you said?"

Castiel would understand why Gabriel fled Heaven if it were. 

"No, I said, 'Be not afraid', because being destined to have a holy bun in the oven meant she could see my true form."

"Damn, you must be one ugly son of a bitch," Dean remarks, casual. 

"I am goddamn majestic," Gabriel snaps. "You could write sonnets about how majestic I am. Oh, wait, they have. Paintings, sonnets, even entire holidays."

"So what _do_ you look like?" Sam cuts in. Gabriel pouts at having his self-aggrandising monologue interrupted, but Sam blusters on. "In terms we can understand, I mean."

"Oh-ho, better buckle up for this one, because you're in for a ride. Angels don't look anything like humans," Gabriel says. "Like, at all. We have all sorts of extra limbs and other assorted appendages. A real smorgasbord of bizarre shit. Well, bizarre by your standards. To me it's just another Tuesday."

Sam is too engrossed to notice the strange expression on his brother's face. "Like what?"

"It varies, depending on the angel. Just like no two humans look the same, each angel has some different combination of limbs and eyes and mouths. Archangels have three pairs of wings, while lower-ranking angels have one." Gabriel waves a hand dismissively. "Same basic principle for everyone, though. We're big, have halos, stand upright. We've got eyes in places nobody wants eyes. We're always packing at least two wings minimum. Oh, and get this, this one always blows your human minds: we have a whole lot of faces. Makes it hard to do makeup in the morning." He winks. "Some look closer to man and some look closer to the rest of the animal kingdom. Yeah, that's right, Dad gave us our own fursonas."

Sam chokes. Dean pats him on the back, then frowns. "The hell is a fursona?"

Castiel wonders the same, but from Sam's reaction, he suspects he'd likely regret hearing the answer.

"Ask your brother about that one, Deanie, he's the one who went to college with all the liberal arts majors."

"How do you do it?" Sam asks. "Use a human vessel like it's no big deal? It was awful enough being a car for a few hours. Thanks for that one, by the way. But you've been here for centuries."

"I'll admit, it sucks only having two hands that work on this plane of existence. I'm a very hands-on kinda guy, you know." Gabriel waggles his eyebrows.

"We know," Dean groans. 

"But I'm used to it by now. Ask Cas, he's the one who needs the training wheels."

Castiel isn't sure if he should be offended. "I haven't had much difficulty operating this vessel," he clarifies, maybe a touch defensively. "But I'll admit the sensation is… jarring at times."

"You sure about that?" Dean asks sceptically. 

"Yes?" Castiel replies, baffled. 

"Your voice, dude." 

"What about my voice?" Castiel's hands reflexively move to his vessel's throat. He hasn't noticed any signs of damage, and he's been able to speak English and Enochian without incident. 

"Jimmy's voice doesn't sound anything like that. Yours is all…" Dean hesitates, wincing a little. "Rough, gravelly, whisky." Sam snorts, and Dean winces again. "Shut up! You try and explain it without sounding like a trashy romance novel!"

Castiel considers. "It wasn’t a conscious choice. I suppose I mimic my true voice without realising it."

"The one that smashes windows?"

"I apologise, I had simply assumed you would be able to hear it after I touched your soul, and I didn't think about what would happen if I had been mistaken before speaking to you…" Truthfully, Castiel feels a little less embarrassed about the mistake now he knows the reality of Dean's origins. Something in him must have picked up on Dean's long-dormant ability to speak Enochian the way it's truly meant to be spoken. "It sounds different to those who can perceive the Celestial." 

"You'd like his real voice. It's this low rumble, all booming thunder, total badass shit. Best way to describe angelic voices is like a whole crowd's talking to you at once, so trust me, when I say loud, I'm talking loud," Gabriel chimes in, leaning closer to the brothers. Sam leans right back, enraptured, but Dean looks deeply uncomfortable. "You'd think he's the one who's been smoking and drinking for eons, not me, but that's just the way he is. Sexy, isn't it?"

"That's amazing," Sam says. 

"An amazing acid trip, maybe," Dean says. He smiles at Castiel in sheepish apology. "No offense. It's just a lot to take in."

The dread pools ever deeper. If only Dean could approach the question of angelic nature with as much enthusiasm as his brother. Castiel imagines Sam would've been eager to experience his true form if he had been the one to Fall. He has an insatiable need to acquire knowledge for knowledge's sake, no matter how it may shake the foundations of whatever he previously believed. 

Dean's desire to learn is rooted in practicality. He wants to feel useful, and information he can't use is a waste of time. His father had never tolerated wasting time.

Little does he know just how useful this particular lesson will prove to be for him. Part of Castiel roils at the lies he's keeping, no matter how much he reassures himself it's for Dean's own protection. 

"Sorry," Sam says. "I kinda got us off track there. We still need to check out the bodies."

"Well, here comes the fun part," Dean says swiftly, clearly happy to be moving onto other topics. "Getting elbow-deep in some poor guy's guts. Ready to find out what's left of dinner?"

"Those are leftovers you'll definitely wanna pass on," Gabriel says. "Unless you're into people purée."

Dean grimaces. "Didn't need that image, thanks."

* * *

The sick stench of death and decay in the morgue is overwhelming. Castiel hovers uselessly at Dean's side as he pokes at the corpses and makes pained noises, looking nauseated. 

"What the fuck, Sam, are you seeing this?"

Sam strolls closer to peer over Dean's shoulder. His face scrunches up immediately, and he shoots back halfway across the room. "Dude," Sam says. "Gross."

"They just… went to town, huh? Started eating and didn't stop."

"Uh, yeah, I can see that." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "Kind of wish I couldn't."

"Their stomachs are way too full. Like, Thanksgiving dinner full." Dean palpates the organ with a sick squelch. "Think I'm gonna puke. That's nasty."

Castiel takes advantage of his immunity to squeamishness and eyes the corpses carefully. Dean is correct, both victims' stomachs are distended from overuse. Chunks of their flesh have been torn savagely away, exposing the fasciae beneath. Castiel can sense some sort of energy still pulsating through their veins, though it's somewhat faded. 

"Guess that confirms they really were completely out of it." Sam risks a glance at the gory scene before him one more time. "Vore is one thing, but eating so much your stomach almost explodes…"

"Let's get outta here," Dean says. "They went batshit crazy. Message received. I don't think we're gonna find anything else. Probably nothing else left to find, anyway."

Castiel trails them out of the building and into the car, where Dean leans his head against the steering wheel. "Kinda queasy," he complains. 

"Yeah." Sam nods. "Tell me about it. Either of you two pick up on anything?" He angles his head towards the backseat, which should look empty to anyone passing by. 

Castiel flickers back into the visible spectrum of light. "Something isn't right here," he explains. "Whatever it is, it possesses considerable power. The bodies were tainted by something… very dark."

"What he said." Gabriel sprawls out over the bench, boxing Castiel into a corner. He sees what Dean means by an uncomfortable breach of personal space. "This definitely has something to do with my brother's tantruming," he says, looking troubled. "I'm going to try and keep a protective ward of Grace over you two, so don't go running off anywhere. Care to lend a wing, Cassie?"

"I don't understand why you're asking that question." Castiel frowns. "It's been my duty to protect the Winchesters since I first arrived on Earth, you know that."

"Someone's getting possessive," Gabriel coos. Castiel stares back at him blankly. "I'll be a good boy if you share your toys, I promise."

"Gabriel," Dean grits out, "I swear to God, if you call me a toy again, I will end you."

"Damn, you're feisty," Gabriel says appreciatively. "It gets me all hot and bothered."

Castiel sighs. "Gabriel, stop making sexual overtures and focus. We don't have much time."

"Bossy." Gabriel grins, sultry. "I could be into that, too. Usually it's my job, but whatever floats your boat, baby."

"For the love of-" Sam throws his hands up. "Go jerk off already, Jesus."

"Ah, ah," Gabriel replies, voice low and dripping. "You can't leave my sight, remember? So that's a no-go. Unless you want to put on a show, of course."

Castiel isn't well-versed in flirtation, but even he can pick up on the fact that Gabriel just propositioned all three of them at once. "It's possible sexual arousal is what triggered the harmful effects in the victims," Castiel says. "You may want to avoid any sexual encounters for the time being, Gabriel. You, too, Dean."

"Hey!" Dean gasps, offended.

Sam gives his brother a consoling pat on the shoulder. "Even Cas knows you can't keep it in your pants, Dean."

"Shove it, Sam." Dean turns the key in the ignition and backs out of the parking space in a huff. "See if I let you get first shower now, asshole."

* * *

Castiel has nothing to do while the Winchesters sleep. The dark aura surrounding the town seeps in ever closer by the second, and neither angel can afford to lower their guard. Even so much as stepping outside seems too dangerous. The feeling of being watched prickles, needle-sharp, at the back of his neck.

On nights like these, Castiel understands the human concept of impatience. 

Gabriel has foregone his usual recreational night's sleep in order to watch over the brothers. He's perched unhappily in one of the rickety motel chairs, chin resting on his knees, bare toes wriggling against the paisley, cigarette-burnt upholstery. Mindlessly, his eyes follow the action movie streaming from Sam's laptop, fingers twirling absently at the headphone cord.

Sam and Dean had fallen asleep before Gabriel could find any opportunity to tell them he was planning on staying awake tonight, so one of the twin beds is empty. Castiel sits down on its edge and stares at the worn carpet. He wonders if he should try and wake them so that they can finally take separate beds again, but memories of how irritable Dean gets when woken against his will stop the thought in its tracks. Besides, despite their height and considerable muscle mass, neither brother seems to have much difficulty staying asleep so close together. Sam's long limbs are curled protectively around Dean, who's gripping him in turn.

Years of practice have them slotting perfectly together like puzzle pieces. Castiel had walked Dean's dreams and seen the memories, seen the two as children in a thousand motels just like this one, reading comics under the covers as John slept on, undisturbed. Their father always took the bed closest to the door, and always slept facing it, which meant his sons could stay up late without his knowing on the nights they didn't have any hunts.

It's why they hadn't protested beyond a few eyerolls and middle fingers when Gabriel claimed one of the beds for himself the first night he'd joined them. After a few nights, they'd stopped complaining at all. 

Gently, Castiel reaches out a wingtip and brushes a stray hair from each of their faces. He feels restless, unsatisfied.

In a desperate urge to soothe the growing sense of wrongness that surrounds them, he rolls onto his stomach and blankets them both with the full length of a wing. Even this partial manifestation is exceedingly rare for him, given the lack of space indoors, but tonight he's struck with a need to keep a barrier between the Winchesters and the outside world. 

Gabriel watches him from the corner of an eye. "An angel's defensive instincts are worse than a mama Grizzly bear's, huh?"

"They're more difficult to resist than I expected," Castiel concedes. "I don't often feel so on edge."

"Yeah," Gabriel says quietly. "It's getting old, and fast."

* * *

Dean and Sam wake up slightly later than usual because Castiel can't bring himself to disturb them. Not when they've been carrying a steady aura of exhaustion around since the Apocalypse first was set in motion. Light filters in through the thin, ragged curtains, spilling out in beams over their entangled bodies. 

Dean checks his phone, groggy, and blinks with squinted eyes at the screen for a few moments before he jumps out of bed. "Three new bodies," he says. "Up and at 'em, Sammy." He jostles Sam's shoulder and gets a frustrated groan in response. "Murder-suicide. Murder- _double-_ suicide."

"Fantastic," Sam mumbles into his pillow.

* * *

Sam has perked up a little by the time they pull back into the morgue, motel instant coffee in a small paper cup in his hands. He chugs it in one gulp, swallowing loudly, and tosses it into the garbage can at the entrance. 

He rolls his shoulders. "God, I needed that."

Castiel passes, unseen, through the doors behind them. He's wary, enough for James' stomach to be churning with anticipation, and can't quite seem to shake the feeling of being watched. Still, a detached part of him is curious to know just what Lucifer's planning here. 

He steels himself against the dawning possibility he might have to see Lucifer again. Though he cannot feel nausea, the thought of having to look at the mangled form of Heaven's greatest betrayer still fills him with deep discomfort. The corruption clinging to Lucifer's very being has warped him almost beyond recognition, and the stark reminder of just how far an angel can fall makes Castiel cringe away in trepidation. 

When Lucifer trapped him, tried to _recruit_ him, Castiel had spent painful hours trying not to stare too openly at the abomination he was being forced to share a room with. He tried desperately to keep all his eyes shut, but like a human itching at a sealing wound, he couldn't quite manage to resist the temptation. Despite his immeasurable power, most of Lucifer was -- is -- an oozing mess of rotting flesh. The corpses Dean had balked at were nothing compared to the way his fallen brother seemed to be peeling apart at the seams, burnt away by Hellfire and corruption.

He hadn't known what horrified him more -- the feathers almost entirely missing from six leathery, clawed wings, both the same colour as the stain of clotted blood and viscera on the floor of their previous victim's home; the skin and muscle sloughing away from bone, riddling Lucifer's body with patches of bright white; the red eyes that constantly wept bloody, sticky ichor, and the gauged-out holes where eyes had once been; the heads that were mostly skull, pupils flickering from within empty eye sockets like dying candle flame. He'd noticed what aspects of humanity's legends were right -- the forked tongues licking away at bloodied teeth, the many horns, the hoofed feet, the pointed tail -- and wondered how many mortals had laid eyes upon Satan's true form without entirely losing their sanity. 

Unconsciously, Castiel has clamped his eyes shut at the memory, following the Winchesters by sound alone. When he opens them, he's met with a sight so startlingly similar he nearly stabs Gabriel in his haste to grasp his blade. 

Like his Father before him, Lucifer had crafted demons in his image. Perhaps he hadn't been able to stand being the only rotting monstrosity in Hell. 

"Shush!" Gabriel hisses. "I've hidden us from his sight. Don't make any more sudden moves, I don't want him to notice anything's amiss. They're perceptive sons of bitches."

Castiel slowly sheathes the sword in its usual resting place against the shoulderblades his wings grow from. Carefully, he steps back.

"Speaking of," Gabriel continues, noticeably more pleased, "look at Sam."

Sam's eyes are trained on the demon, swiveling his head to watch it as it passes by. His brow furrows as he attempts to place what his abilities have clearly sensed. 

"What's up?" Dean fails to keep the concern out of his tone, as adept at recognising Sam's changes in mood as ever. 

"'S nothing, sorry," Sam assures, though it doesn't sound like he believes it. 

"Atta boy," Gabriel says, wings fluffing up with pride. It's almost a little endearing. 

Almost. 

"Careful there, Sammy, rubbernecking only gets a free pass when the neck in question isn't so damn long," Dean teases. "Everyone can see you checking out the dude in the nice suit, you giant perv." He bumps their shoulders together, and Sam rolls his eyes with a huff. "Got a thing for a sharp-dressed man? Admit it, being around us has given you a suit fetish."

Sam digs an elbow into his side. "Shuddup, Dean."

"Hey, my eyes are up here, y'know! Cas', maybe not so much. But I'm pretty sure he has way too much virtue to get prissy about protecting anyway. You're safe. Me, on the other hand? No virtue to speak of, baby."

"Dean, I swear to God-"

The friendly ribbing fades into the background, a familiar comfort against the sense of unease that's been permeating the town. 

Castiel forces himself to relax as the demon leaves their field of view. "If there's already a demon here to examine the bodies, then that means-"

"That daddy sent him to make sure things are going according to plan." Gabriel hums his assent. "We're definitely on the right track."

The apprehension is thick enough to choke on.


	5. Cupid's Arrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it was bad having to rewrite scenes from a book, but having to write out exact moments from an episode is also frazzling. Most of the rest if this fic is (uh, for obvious reasons) original, but I do occasionally have to dip into direct canon. Lemme tell you, thank god for closed captioning.

"Agent Marley, Agent Cliff, you two just can't seem to stay away, can you?"

Dean inclines his head. "Heard you tagged another double suicide." 

The mortician pulls off his gloves and hangs up his coat. He has a friendly smile that offers a welcome refrain from the gloominess of the morgue and whatever's tarnished the town. “Oh, I just finished closing them up. Finished the prelims. Pulled the organ sets and sent off the tox samples.” 

"Great," Sam says. "You mind if we take a look at the bodies?"

"Not at all." The mortician moves to open the refrigerator in the corner, revealing containers of neatly-boxed body parts. In the absence of any cannibalism, neither Dean nor Sam show any hint of disgust. "But like I said, their good-and-plenties are already Tupperwared."

Sam raises an eyebrow at the phrasing. "Super."

"Leave the keys with Marty up front." Dean catches the keys in question with practiced ease. "And please, gentlemen, refrigerate after opening."

The mortician leaves behind an audience of Dean's amused smirk and Sam's puzzled expression. 

They unbox the organs without protest, examining them closely for any signs of tampering. Castiel can sense the dark energy from these victims as well, but beyond that there are no obvious anomalies. This case is unfortunately going to require actual investigation, which takes up precious time. 

He feels like the hanged man as he's being led to the noose. 

"Hey," Dean says, playful. He slides a container over to Sam, who peeks in to see one of the victims' hearts. Sam gives him a confused look. "Be my Valentine?"

Once the joke registers, Sam rolls his eyes. Then, he freezes. "Woah, woah, woah. Wait a minute." He moves one of the other boxes closer. The remaining heart. "Both these hearts have identical marks. Check this out, it looks like some kinda letter." There's a moment's pause as he stares through the magnification lens and gets a proper look at the marking. Sam's eyes widen, and then narrow sharply in exasperation. "Oh, no. No."

Dean elbows his way in to get a better view. "What?"

"I think it's Enochian."

Dean stares at the hearts like they're poison. "You mean like _angel_ scratches?" Sam nods. "So you think it's like the tagging on our ribs?"

"Dean," Sam says, exasperation rising. "I don't _know._ "

"Ah, hell." Dean waves at the empty air, as frustrated as his brother. Castiel abruptly feels like perhaps his company isn't wanted. Not when it means more bad news. "Cas? Gabriel? A little help here?"

"What's the magic word?" Gabriel asks glibly. 

If looks could kill. Castiel sighs. Why did his Father think it was a good idea to make Gabriel His messenger? He has all the subtlety and all the manners of a peacock. It would be fitting if he had the screeching, piercing voice to match, but, like his vessel, Gabriel's true voice is rich and melodic. He gets away with so much more that way. 

"Puh-lease," Dean drawls at length. "As in, puh-lease could you do your damn job as Archangel liaison for once and maybe put your feathery ass to good use?"

Gabriel gasps, scandalised. "You want to put my ass to good use, Dean? 'Cause I could've sworn Cas put his foot down on the whole 'sexual arousal' part of things while we're still figuring out this fiasco."

"He'll be putting his foot up your _ass_ if you don't-"

"Don't threaten me with a good time, Dean. You'll distract me!"

"Gabriel," Castiel snaps. 

"Yes, yes," Gabriel demurs. "The stage is all yours. They like it best when you play professor anyway, not me. Just make sure I'm around to watch if you get out the ruler."

As usual, Castiel barely has a clue what any of Gabriel's babbling means. Instead, he reaches out a hand and picks up the heart. It rests uselessly in his palm, blood leaking sluggishly from its arteries, and touching it, pressing that dark energy against nerve endings directly wired to his Grace, sends a lurch up his spine. 

James Novak's spine, technically. 

He recognises the mark immediately. The symbol of union. Only Cherubim treasure the mark, as its sole arbiters. Other angels loyal to Heaven have no reason to care for mating rituals, as only mortals reproduce through sexual means. The angels who experience sexual congress in a human vessel are almost always rogue. Angels have no need to seek pleasure for pleasure's sake. Hedonism is for other beings, not servants of God. And service to God rarely involves experiencing orgasm, not when Nephilim are the highest order of treason.

No wonder Gabriel is so willing to devote himself to the team's cause. 

"You're right, Sam. These are angelic marks. I imagine you'll find similar marks on the other couples' hearts, as well."

Sam's frustration is momentarily eclipsed by his curiosity. "So, what are they? I mean, what do they mean?"

"It's a mark of union. This man and woman were intended to mate."

"Okay," Dean says, processing. "But who put them there?"

"Well, your people call them 'Cupid'."

Sam splutters. "A what?"

"What human myth has mistaken for 'Cupid' is actually a lower order of angel," he explains. "Technically, it's a Cherub, third-class."

"'Cherub'?" Dean repeats in disbelief.

Castiel doesn't understand what's so confusing. "Yes, they're all over the world. There are dozens of them."

Castiel has never met one, but from what he heard in Heaven, their powers are proportionate to their low rank. Surely a Cherub is too weak to generate this kind of energy? Could something else have corrupted it?

"You mean the little flying fat kid in diapers?"

Seems Gabriel isn't the only one Castiel feels baffled by today. "They're not incontinent," he corrects. Human legends are astounding in what they get wrong. 

"Okay, anyway," Sam dismisses. "So what you're saying is-"

Time's noose is strung ever tighter. "What I'm saying," Castiel growls in annoyance, "is a Cupid has gone rogue, and we have to stop him before he kills again."

Sam chuckles, somewhat mocking. "Naturally."

"Of course we do," Dean jumps in, placating. He's clearly unused to the role; usually Sam is smoothing over his blunders, not the other way around.

The sooner they can figure out what's causing this, the sooner they can leave, and Castiel's vigilance can finally abate.

* * *

Bland, uplifting music plays through the restaurant's speakers as attractive waitress after attractive waitress serves impatient customers. Dean takes his plate with an equally as bland smile. "So, what," he says, "you just happen to know he likes the Cosmos at this place?"

"This place is a nexus of human reproduction. It's exactly the kind of garden-," Castiel pauses to watch Dean generously lather his burger with ketchup, "-the Cupid will come to pollinate."

Dean looks blankly at the burger, then pushes it away.

Sam blinks. "Wait a minute. You're not hungry?"

"No," Dean replies. Sam looks at him in open befuddlement. "What? I'm not hungry."

Something in James' throat seems to twist. Hunger. His vessel shouldn't need to eat, but nonetheless, he… aches. "Then, you're not going to finish that?" 

Dean yields the plate to him. Castiel grabs the bun, hit by the sweet aroma of onions, tomato, and lightly-charred meat. His mouth waters. 

Then, he feels the flicker of Grace, weaker than Gabriel's or his own. "He's here."

Sam looks surreptitiously around. "Where? I don't see anything."

He watches as the tendrils of Grace worm their way through the air and stir up a light breeze, which unseats a napkin straight into two customer's faces. Their eyes meet, and Castiel sees it -- the spark of attraction borne from the mark of union. "There."

Dean follows his gaze. "What, you mean the same-side-of-the-booth couple over there?"

The angel is hiding himself from human perception, but Castiel has no time to explain. He can't miss this opportunity, Cupids move quickly and without delay. He'll have another assignment to take on soon.

He stands up, unfolds his wings. "Meet me in the back."

The Cherub startles at the touch of his Grace. He's too taken aback to put up much of a fight when Castiel holds him in place, struggling uselessly against the power of a much higher rank. 

Gabriel stands back, amused, and does nothing. "Poor guy's about to have a heart attack already. Don't need an Archangel's Grace thrown into the mix, too." 

The Winchesters choose that moment to rush into the room, looking somewhat flustered. "Cas," Sam calls, "where is he?"

"I have him tethered," Castiel explains. " _Zoda kama mahrana._ Manifest yourself." He braces for the Enochian spell to take effect. Cupids are notoriously… robust in their greetings.

Dean eyes the room impatiently. "So, where is he?"

Castiel hears the telltale sound of Dean's panicked grunt and holds back a wince. "Here I am," the Cupid sings, squeezing Dean for all he's worth. 

Dean chokes. "Help!"

"Oh, help is on the way," the Cupid croons. "Yes, it is! Yes, it is!"

Desperate, Dean looks to Castiel. Castiel looks to Dean. The Cupid looks to Castiel. 

Dangerous mistake. 

"Hello, you!" he cries, arms spread wide. Castiel takes a step back and silently apologises to James Novak for what his body is about to endure. 

He's wrapped in a crushing embrace, vessel instinctively gasping for breath it doesn't need. 

"This is Cupid?" Dean grits out.

"Yes," Castiel manages. Barely. 

The vice-like grip is mercifully released as the Cupid turns to Sam. "And look at you, huh?"

"Oh, no. No, no, _no._ "

"Yes, yes, yes!" Sam wriggles like a fish on a hook, but falls into the trap regardless. 

Gabriel steps forward, grinning. "Heya, bud." He's pat vigorously on the back in response.

Dean whirls around, unsure where to look or what to do. Castiel sympathises. "Is this a fight? Are we in a fight?"

"This is… their handshake."

"I don't like it!" Dean shrieks. 

"No-one likes it."

Except, perhaps, Gabriel. He does seem to rejoice in seeing others made uncomfortable. 

There's a contented sigh as the Cupid admires his handiwork. "What can I do for you?"

Castiel swiftly asks, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Your targets, the ones you've marked, they're slaughtering each other."

"What?" The Cupid's face falls. Looking as pathetic as a lost puppy, he murmurs, "They are?"

"Listen, birthday suit," Dean snaps, evidently having reached the limits of his patience. Not that he ever has much to spare. "We know, okay? We know you've been flittin' around, popping people with your poison arrow, making 'em murder each other."

"What we don't know is why," Castiel continues. 

"You think that I-" The Cupid's expression is rapidly crumpling, past lost puppy and into truly pitiable. The sight fills Castiel with a sense of dread. "Well, uh, I don't know what to say."

The Cupid bursts into tears. 

Sam grimaces. The room is paralysed by unbearable awkwardness. "Should- should somebody maybe go talk to him?"

"Yeah, that's a good idea." Dean nods hurriedly. "Give him hell, Cas."

Gabriel snorts loudly. That traitorous wretch. Castiel fights the urge to resort to physical violence. "Um," he tells the Cupid with uncharacteristic hesitance, "look. We didn't mean to, um, hurt your feelings."

Castiel has never floundered more at social literacy in his life. He despises each and every agonising second. 

The Cupid flings himself into Castiel's arms and trembles. "Love is more than just a word to me!" he wails. "I _love_ love. I love it! And if that's wrong, then I don't want to be right!"

"Yes, yes. Of course. I, uh-" Castiel stops. "I have no idea what you're saying."

"I was just on my appointed rounds!" he pleads. "Whatever my targets do after that, that's nothing to do with me! I was following my orders!" He takes a blessed step back to look beseechingly into Castiel's eyes. "Please, brother. Read my mind. Read my mind, you'll see!"

Reluctantly, Castiel shuffles through the offered memories, steeped in levels of saccharine excitement that are so inappropriate for the sorry state of things that Castiel feels a fleeting buzz of irritation at the sheer blissful ignorance. But as syrupy-sweet as they are, there's no malicious intent behind them. Another dead end. "He's telling the truth."

The Cupid throws up his arms, as if he's the one who's been assaulted here. Castiel tethered him with a string of Grace no stronger than absolutely necessary. He hardly squeezed the breath from his lungs, unlike some. "Jiminy Christmas, thank you!"

"Wait, wait." Dean raises a hand. He moves forward with the tentative hope that the worst of the handshake has passed. "You said you were just following orders. Whose orders?" 

The Cupid wheezes with laughter, and Dean's disdainful glare intensifies a thousandfold. "Heaven, silly! Heaven!"

"Why does Heaven care if Harry meets Sally?"

Castiel swallows against the impulse to protest that neither member of the couple is named Harry or Sally. He has a feeling it won't be appreciated. 

"Oh, mostly they don't. You know, certain bloodlines, certain destinies." The Cupid's heads raise, faces perking up and wings fluffing in the same dissonant excitement from his memories. Castiel watches each head for any sign of deceit, the droopy ears of a rabbit flicking to and fro, almost with a mind of their own, an eager dog panting happily. No, no lies. He truly is this oblivious. "Oh! Like yours!"

"What?"

"Yeah! The union of John and Mary Winchester, _very_ big deal upstairs. Top priority arrangement, mhm!"

Dean's voice drops to a dangerously low register. "Are you saying that you fixed up our parents?"

"Well, not _me._ But, yeah! Oh, it wasn't easy, either. Ooo, they couldn't _stand_ each other at first, but when we were done with them? _Perfect_ couple!"

" _'Perfect'?_ " Dean snarls. 

"Yeah!"

"They're _dead_."

The ears flop. The dog stops panting. "I'm sorry. But the orders were very clear. You and Sam _needed_ to be born. Your parents were just… meant to be!" The Cupid unclasps his hands and sings, "A match made in Heaven! Heaven!"

Castiel is unsurprised to hear the wet crack of bone and cartilage as Dean's fist hits the Cupid's midsection and finds that it refuses to give way. "Son of a bitch!" The poor creature flies away in a terrified flap of ruffled wings. "Where is he? Where'd he go?"

Castiel heaves a sigh. "I believe you upset him."

"Upset _him?_ "

"Dean, _enough_ ," Sam warns. 

"What?"

"You just punched a Cupid!"

"I punched a dick!" Dean yells.

Sam runs a hand over his face, looks to Castiel in askance, and predictably finds nothing helpful. "Um. Are we gonna talk about what's been up with you lately, or not?"

Dean turns and walks away in disgust. "Or not."

* * *

Castiel follows Sam back to the morgue at the next call, while Dean remains at the motel. Presumably to research. And to brood. 

The corpse lying flat on the cold metal of the examination table looks almost entirely normal, save for the unnatural bulge in its stomach. 

Castiel listens intently as the mortician explains the cause of death, and an unpleasant realisation trickles into his consciousness like mud. A formerly obese man eats himself to death with an array of cream-filled pastries. Two lonely souls try to quench their desperate need for companionship with each other's flesh. A starry-eyed couple is fatally consumed by the desire to stay by the other's side. 

James Novak's increasingly gnawing hunger. 

Passionate, needy, irresistible desire. What makes people yearn with such incredible intensity?

He's beginning to suspect. 

Sam leaves the morgue looking harrowed. The bodies are piling up, and progress isn't. Castiel isn't yet sure enough of his new hypothesis to give the brothers false hope, so he looks on in silence as Sam confers with Dean on the details. The suicide rate has skyrocketed in recent months, the deaths are bizarre. Something has been creeping in on the town and driving its citizens to madness. Whatever is causing this has considerable power, they'll need to go in prepared. 

Sam hangs up the phone and looks miserably at the wet ground. Castiel wishes he knew how to offer comfort, besides giving into the instinct to wrap away suffering with his wings. Instead, he stands, unseen, at Sam's side and does nothing at all. 

After a moment, Sam tenses, muscles taut and straining as his fight or flight response is smothered by years of training into something more manageable. Castiel checks his wings to make sure he hasn't, in fact, accidentally wrapped them around an unsuspecting Sam, but they're folded tightly against his back, as usual. 

Then, he smells it. Sulfur, the sweet stink of decay, the sharp tang of something metallic. A demon. Castiel shrouds himself even further in the Celestial plane and keeps every eye open for the slightest hint of action. 

Sam tracks their unwelcome guest with equal precision. The demon tucks away into an alley, unaware that Sam is tailing it and that Castiel is tailing Sam. Its hands are curled protectively around a briefcase, which is heavily warded with defensive runes. Something inside must be screaming to get out. 

Sam pins it against the wall like a moth in a display case, knife pressing against its neck, the promise of pain to come. Once, Castiel had thought Sam's hybrid soul a curse. Now, he knows he was mistaken. Castiel was forged a warrior, and it's with a warrior's appreciation that he admires the smooth, animal grace with which Sam hunts. "I know what you are, dammit," Sam growls. The blade digs into the skin of the demon's cheek, filling the alleyway with the scent of burnt flesh. "I could _smell_ you."

"Winchester."

Hazel eyes fall to the pulse point on the demon's neck and stay there. For just a second, Sam's grip goes lax, and the demon takes the opportunity to shove an elbow into his stomach. Sam stumbles back, winded. He lunges wildly at the demon, teeth bared in rage, and slashes another searing line into its shoulder. It drops the briefcase, whimpers like a kicked dog, and runs. 

Sam stands panting in the alley, blood inching its way down his knife in a slow, tantalising crawl. A drop falls to the ground, and Sam's mouth parts wider around a choked-off groan. His tongue darts out to lick a spit-slick trail across his lips. 

Castiel is ravenous. His wings itch with the need to stretch out, soar, take him somewhere, anywhere, the pit in his stomach can finally be soothed away. 

He flies.

* * *

Castiel returns to the motel with arms warmed by a greasy bag of freshly-grilled burgers and is met with the sight of Sam and Dean peering down at the briefcase anxiously. They seem to have been doing this for some time.

"It won't bite," Gabriel tells them.

"What the hell does a demon gotta do with this, anyway?" Dean asks. 

Sam scoffs, shrugs. "Believe me, I got no idea."

Dean leans in closer, as if his concern is a blanket that can be draped across Sam's shoulders. "You okay?"

Sam gives a small smile. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be alright."

Dean shifts his focus back to the case. "Let's crack her open," he announces. "Hey, what's the worst that could happen, right?" 

Wisely, no-one answers that question. The brothers paw at the lock, seemingly poised for it to jump out and take off their fingers, until it snaps unlocked with a satisfying click. Instantly, the lid comes flying open and fills the room with blinding light. 

Sam and Dean shoot back, faces scrunching at the sudden onslaught, but nothing else happens. The light fades. The suitcase lies empty and harmless on the table. 

"What the hell was that?" Dean cries. 

"It's a human soul," Castiel answers, shifting the bag more comfortably in his arms. Sam and Dean spin on their heels to face him, reflexes still oversensitive from shock. "It's starting to make sense." He takes a juicy bite of his burger.

Sam raises an eyebrow at the admittedly strange picture he must be painting. "Now, what about that makes sense?" 

"And when did you start eating?" Dean adds.

"Exactly!" Castiel says, holding up his half-eaten meal triumphantly. "My hunger -- it's a clue, actually."

"For what?" Sam and Dean chorus, then give each other an approving, if not a little surprised, nod.

"This town isn't suffering from some 'love-gone-wrong' effect, it's suffering from Hunger. Starvation, to be exact. Specifically, Famine."

"Famine?" Sam parrots. "A-as in, the Horseman?"

"Great!" Dean sulks. "Well, that's- that's just freaking great."

"I thought famine meant starvation." Sam's settling into his role of academic with all the familiarity of a second skin. "Like, as in, you know, food."

"Yes, absolutely," Castiel confirms. "But not _just_ food. I mean, everyone seems to be starving for something -- sex, attention, drugs, love."

"Well, that explains the puppy-lovers that Cupid shot up," Dean says. 

Castiel swallows another moist, tender bite. "Right. The Cherub made them crave love, and then Famine came, and made them _rabid_ for it."

Dean takes this in. "Okay, but what about you? I mean, since when do angels secretly hunger for White Castle?"

"It's my vessel," Castiel clarifies, a little embarrassed. "Jimmy. His, uh, _appetite_ for red meat has been touched by Famine's effect."

Dean scrunches his nose. "So, what, Famine just rolls into town and everybody goes crazy?"

"'And then will come Famine, riding on a black steed'," Castiel recites. "'He will ride into the land of plenty, and great will be the Horseman's hunger, for he _is_ Hunger. His hunger will seep out, and poison the air.' Famine is hungry, so he must devour the souls of his victims."

Dean looks between him and the table, baffled. "So, that's what was in the briefcase. Twinkie Dude's soul?"

"Lucifer has sent his demons to care for Famine. To feed him, make certain he'll be ready."

Sam stares expectantly. "Ready for what?"

"'To march across the land.'"

"Well, ain't this whole thing shaping up to be the shitshow of the millennium," Gabriel pipes up. The brothers give him a quelling glare, but it goes as ignored as ever. "As Cassie so helpfully explained, the second Horseman has ridden into town and swiftly made it his bitch. But don't fret, boys. Ready to hear why this isn't as much of a disaster as you think?"

“Please,” says Sam. 

“I’m sure you’ve guessed my plan involves breaking up the fight between Luci and Mike,” Gabriel begins. “I’ll do it any way I can if I have to, but I’d rather not have to kill any Archangels. I mean, I’m no damsel, but I’m not quite as strong as either of them. Nevermind that we’re related, and I’ve never really been into fratricide.”

The word makes both Winchesters grimace. “I don’t want you to have to kill your family,” Sam assures. “We’ll use lethal force as a last resort, and a last resort only.”

Dean hums his agreement. “Don’t think we’ve got great odds against two Archangels anyway. I’m down with working smarter, not harder, on this one.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Gabriel claps his hands. “Luckily for you, when Lucifer broke out of the Cage, he didn’t destroy it. It’s a little bruised, but it’ll hold him for the foreseeable future. At least long enough to put a Band-Aid on the trainwreck that is Heaven’s current upper management.”

Sam’s eyes light up in hope. The sheer relief makes him slump onto the bed like a puppet with cut strings. Dean joins him a second after, and slings a supportive arm around his shoulder. “There’s a way to get him back in? When I let him out, I didn’t, you know, break the locks for good or something?”

“Nope, not broken. I’m sure you’ve noticed each Horseman has a ring, and the ring is what contains most of their power.” Gabriel waits for the brothers to nod. “Assemble all four rings, and they unlock the door to the Cage. After that it’s just a matter of shoving the jack back in the box. Which, I’ll admit, is easier said than done. But it’s a damn sight better than letting the Apocalypse play out. Am I right, or am I right?”

Sam looks like he might cry. “Gabriel, thank you. Really.”

Gabriel’s wings puff up in pride, all bright, shimmering golds and glittering purple-pinks, and for once, his smile is genuine. His eyes crinkle. On one head, fox ears prick up, tongue lolling. Castiel wishes Sam could see just how he’s made an Archangel practically preen from praise. He knows Sam still has a measure of awe for the Celestial that his brother can’t share, still wishes for Heavenly approval, despite the shame he feels over his patchwork soul. Castiel and Gabriel may only be a fraction of the Host, but their approval has been solidly won. 

“Yeah. Gotta say, I had my doubts, but you came through in the end.” Dean runs a sheepish hand through his hair. “We owe you one.”

“Heh, don’t thank me yet. We’ve still gotta catch ‘em all. But it’s a start!”

Dean cracks his knuckles. “Alright, then. Let’s get this show on the road. We’ve got Horsemen to rob, Apocalypses to stop.” He uses the arm draped around Sam’s shoulders to drag him up and off the bed. Sam lets out a startled ‘oof’. “No time to loaf around, our schedule’s starting to look like a middle-aged soccer mom’s. A middle-aged soccer mom who’s already late to pick up her kids from after-school activities. And her minivan’s leaking gas. Stop swooning and get your ass in gear, Sam.”

“I’m not swooning!” Sam brushes himself off. “And I’m readier than you are! Remind me, who spends ten years in the bathroom prettying himself up like a teenage girl before we go somewhere?”

“Yeah? Well, you’re the one who needs thirty bottles of shampoo for your luscious locks. Who’s the teenage girl here, asshole?”

Gabriel sighs. “I regret helping them already.”

For Castiel, the background ambience of Winchester sibling rivalry is already beginning to feel suspiciously like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, uh. The alleyway demon scene. My top!Sam and top!Cas headcanons are showing.


	6. Saint Valentine's Gift

Dean taps the steering wheel, lost in thought. "Hey, bloodhound, can you nose your way to the demon that attacked Sammy?"

Gabriel makes an offended sound. "That's not how this works. I can smell them, sure, who wouldn't? But they don't leave behind a scent when they fly. It's a whole different plane of existence, one they can't stink up."

"So, we're just gonna have to sit at the morgue and wait for fresh meat?" Dean asks. "That's messed up, man, even for us."

Sam's sitting, hunched over, long limbs brought as tightly to his body as possible. He's sweating, pale, panting short, pained breaths. "I don't know how much longer I can just sit here. Not all of us are immune like you two, and it's getting bad."

Dean squeezes his arm. "Hey, you're gonna be okay. You can get through this, you know you can."

Castiel's wings itch, but he tamps down on the urge to cover Sam with them. That would be spectacularly unhelpful, and Dean hasn't been reacting well to anything Celestial regardless. 

"Grace is what gives us an immunity," Gabriel offers. "Humans react to receiving it differently. Dean has a natural affinity for the stuff, which is the only reason he's not a hot mess right now." He shoots Castiel a quick, meaningful glance out of the corners of his eyes. "You, Sam, well. I've been a little more careful, low doses only. There's never really been a soul like yours before."

Sam takes that like a physical blow. "No, I guess not." His eyes scrunch shut.

"Hey, hey, I didn't mean that in a bad way!" Gabriel leans into the front seat, chin resting near Sam's shoulder. "I just mean you're unique. Touching a human soul with angelic Grace has a big effect, just like touching it with demonic energy does. It's such a big deal, it's even part of the ritual to turn a human into an angel."

Sam's eyes shoot open. "You can do that?"

"Oh, oops, silly me, did I say that out loud?" Gabriel puts two fingers to his lips. "You technically don't have the clearance for that state secret, but I never really liked my brothers' whole Angelic CIA schtick anyway," he says conspiratorially.

"But I thought God made all the angels?"

"He did. And so far, He's the only one who ever has. But I guess He made plans for His hit-and-run pretty early on, because He entrusted us with instructions on how to grow our very own angels. It requires crazy amounts of power -- like, at least two Archangels kind of power, and since we can't even agree on what we want for dinner most of the time, it just… never happened. Plus, it's supposed to be for emergencies. There hasn't really been one until now." Gabriel shrugs. 

"Wait a damn minute," Dean cuts in. "I get that we're being given some serious intel here, but _'Angelic CIA'_? We're just gonna brush past that bombshell?"

"Who do you think tortured Anna, or tried to reprogram Cas' brain?" Gabriel frowns, suddenly unable to meet their eyes. "I never gave it my stamp of approval, but nobody cared. Raph and Mike were on board. Anything, no matter how skeevy, was A-OK in their book, as long as it maintained order. Couldn't have a repeat of the last time an angel decided to disobey Daddy's orders."

Just the memory of it makes Castiel's wings curl protectively around his body. He's not sure he can ever forgive himself for sending Anael into their waiting arms. He's not sure he can forgive Heaven for sanctioning the torture of their own kind at all. 

Dean looks sick. "That's some fucked up logic, dude."

"Which is exactly why I'm here whistleblowing to you three." Gabriel settles back in his seat, a little subdued. "Anyway, the point is, enough Grace will supplement Sam's powers, which could be useful to have around, but it's ultimately up to him. It could be risky. Too much Grace and Sam's soul will react, and I don't know how."

"You mean, like demon blood but without the, uh, actual demon blood?" Sam's voice pitches up, hopeful. "What are the side effects?"

"I'm not sure," Gabriel admits. "It's never been done on a human-demon soul before. It's not really done, period, end of story. Most angels don't trust humans with that kind of power."

"You trust me?" Sam asks. 

"If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't be here," Gabriel says simply. "You also have us as your primary care team. We're gonna do anything we can to help."

The flush over Sam's cheeks is stark against the rest of his pale skin. "So, could I- could I _explode_ or something? If you had to make a guess, I mean. What sort of risks are we talking about here?"

"Sam-" Dean starts, angry. 

"Don't, Dean. We know we can't turn down any chance to gain an advantage. This is the whole world that's at stake, man. Literally the entire planet."

"Exploding is a worst case scenario," Gabriel says. "There's also another reason angels don't usually trust humans with that power. It's the same reason angels and humans aren't supposed to reproduce."

Dean splutters, looks between Castiel and Gabriel in sudden suspicion. "Wait, you can have an angel for a baby daddy? I hope you've been wrapping before you've been tapping."

"The Nephilim," Castiel breathes. "You think Sam could-?"

"Not exactly," Gabriel corrects. "Nephilim are born, not made. And Sam's soul is already partly demonic." Sam winces at the words. Dean grips his arm tighter. "He'd be a hybrid of all _three_."

Dean side-eyes each angel. "Is that part of your plan? Win the Apocalypse by turning my brother into a living weapon?"

"More like Plan Z, in case A-through-Y don't go so well. It's a gamble. The reason Nephilim are forbidden, why dosing humans with angel juice is usually a big no-no, is that hybrids are _incredibly_ powerful."

"How powerful?" Sam hedges. "Archangel powerful?"

"If it's my Grace, probably stronger. Hybrids can end up leagues above us pure-bred poodles. If you learned to control it, you'd be an even match for Michael. Keyword being if."

"And if I don't?"

"It could kill you. Or worse, it could rip you apart, leave you in agony."

"I-" Sam stutters. Pauses. Goes still. "It's your Grace you'd be giving me, so it's your choice. If you think I can handle it, then… go for it. I can deal with the pain."

"Sammy!" Dean cries. The sound is wrenched-out and broken and makes Castiel's wings flare protectively.

"Breathe," Gabriel soothes. He runs a few of his hands over Castiel's feathers, settling them. A sharp jolt of wistfulness spikes through him; it's been so long since someone last touched his wings within the Celestial plane. "I'm starting him off slow. Just enough to stop Famine's effect for now. And I'm still not done with Plan A, remember?"

"Yeah. I remember: remember that I still don't know jack about Plan A. Real reassuring, there, buddy."

"I need to wait for the right time to tell you. Hopefully, that'll be soon."

Dean opens his mouth to say more, then looks away. He turns the keys in the ignition. "I'm trusting you on this one."

"I know."

* * *

Castiel accompanies Dean to the morgue, while Gabriel chooses to watch over Sam in the car. Dean walks a little tensely, caught up in his own mind. Castiel doesn't need telepathy to read the fear and helplessness he's radiating with every step. 

They run across the other doctor stationed in the wing soon after entering, head down and mouth twisted into a frown. He looks as bad as Dean feels. "Hey, Marty," Dean greets, a little weakly. "Is Doctor Corman around?"

Marty startles out of his reverie. "You haven't heard?"

Dean's dark mood turns darker. "Heard what?"

Marty leads them to a room with a body, fresh enough that Castiel can't pick up the scent of rot. It's no different to any other visit they've made in the past few days, but Dean stares at the sheet draped over the corpse with nothing short of dread. Famine had made this personal when he infected Sam, but it wasn't anything Dean's determination and sheer force of will couldn't fix. This, however, cannot be undone. 

Marty lifts the sheet. It's Doctor Corman. Dean looks away. "Guy's been dry for the last 20 years. But this morning, he left work, went home, and drank himself to death."

"It's Famine," Castiel tells him. He doesn't want the late mortician's dedication to sobriety brought into question. It hadn't really been him who'd returned home this morning, only his most base of impulses. 

"Pardon?" It belatedly occurs to Castiel that Marty has probably not read the Book of Revelation. It's not as popular as it was thousands of years ago.

"Would you give us a minute, please?" Dean asks tightly. 

"Sure."

Dean offers up a strained smile. "Thanks."

When Marty leaves the room, he returns his gaze to the doctor's body. "Crap," he mutters. "I really kinda liked this guy."

Castiel lays a palm over Corman's torso, feels the answering ping of brightness and warmth that human souls always emit. In Heaven, the doctor will find peace. Castiel wishes he could say the same for himself. "They haven't harvested his soul yet."

Dean gives a weary sigh. "Well, if we want to play 'follow-the-soul' to get to Famine, our best shot starts with the doc, here."

* * *

James Novak's stomach growls, interrupting the uncomfortable silence of the stakeout. Castiel stares at it accusingly through the white of his dress shirt.

"Are you serious?" Dean grouses. "Shouldn't your Grace be suppressing that or something?"

"I've suppressed it enough that I no longer have an insatiable need for ground beef," Castiel allows. "But until Famine's power is entirely nullified, Jimmy will stay hungry."

Dean frowns. "Well, okay, then. All the more reason to gank this mother and get outta here ASAP."

Movement at the front entrance catches Castiel's eye. The stench hits soon after. "There."

Sam groans and buries his nose in the crook of his elbow. "Ugh, Gabriel, I think your Grace has made my smell worse, somehow. Or better, I guess."

"That's the problem with lots of power, kiddo. Great responsibility and all."

"The responsibility not to hurl," Sam says, more to himself. 

Dean revs the engine, shifts gears. "Get puke on my seats, and I'll send you to Heaven myself, no mojo necessary."

Sam just groans again.

* * *

Tailing the demon's vehicle brings them to a run-down diner, helpfully labeled Big Gerson's. Sam gags as the Impala pulls in to park. Dean rubs a comforting hand down his back. "Jesus, Sam. That bad, huh?"

Sam blinks watery eyes. "You have no idea."

Dean keeps up the pattern of slow circles against Sam's shoulderblades. "So, you wanna go over the plan again?"

"Moose-y and me will go in from the back," Gabriel says. He pauses to waggle an eyebrow, which makes Dean toss a stray pen in his direction. It's dodged easily. "You and Cas will approach from the front. You swoop in to look all angsty and determined first, Cas pretends he's still possessed by the Hamburglar, then we all go in for the chop while Famine's distracted by the size of your martyr complex. Sound about right?"

"You really are the worst," Dean replies instead. "Just… make sure he doesn't see you two come in, okay? Sam, I'm not worried about. You, on the other hand? Hard to believe you know how to tone it down."

"I find your lack of faith disturbing," Gabriel says. For some reason, this makes Sam snort and Dean's grip on the steering wheel go white-knuckled.

* * *

Even without enhanced smell, Dean is looking nauseous by the time they've made their way through the diner. If Castiel knew how to feel nausea, he thinks he would join in.

The diner is riddled with dead bodies, each death more horrific than the last. As they pass a corpse whose teeth are embedded in his plate, having tried to eat even the dish his food had been served on, Dean swallows compulsively against the bile no doubt rising in his throat, the spit pooling under his tongue as he fights the urge to retch. Castiel watches his Adam's apple bob, then remembers he's supposed to be focusing on the food, pretending he's still in the throes of Famine's madness. 

He makes himself stagger, clutch at his stomach. Famine is there in the centre of it all, body weak and sickly, sitting in his wheelchair like a throne. His true form is in worse condition, all bone and no meat, skin draped over his skeletal figure with no more elegance than the sheet over a corpse. 

He watches Castiel like he's a particularly amusing theatre act. Castiel struggles to keep all his eyes and each of his heads aimed only at the food. 

He is not a spectacle to be gawked at. He is a warrior of God. Perhaps not a very good one, woven through with traitorous instincts as he is, but still one nonetheless. He is not one of Famine's playthings. 

He drops to his knees once he stumbles over to a discarded pan of raw beef, and brings frenzied hands to his mouth. James' mouth. He is fiercely glad James is fast asleep, soul tucked carefully away behind a solid wall of Grace, because this act would push the boundaries of even the greatest fan of red meat. His hands make wet sounds as the granules squish and slop over the sides. Castiel has no need to vomit, can simply banish the contents of his vessel's stomach with just a thought, but he thinks if James were awake, his reflex need to try would be difficult to smother. 

Arms reach out to lock Dean in a cruel parody of an embrace. "Hey, watch the goods! Get offa me! Shit!" He's a talented actor. Famine hasn't caught on to even the slightest hint of deception. His panicked cries are flawless under the scrutiny. 

Demons crowd in on him, wrestle him into submission. The fight he puts up seems genuine, and the grunt of pain as he's hit over the head definitely is. 

"The other Mr. Winchester," Famine says pleasantly. 

"Cas? _Cas?_ " Dean squirms against his restraints. "What did you do to him?"

"You sicced your dog on me, I just threw him a steak."

Dean bristles at the words as much as Castiel himself does. "So, this is your big trick, huh? Making people cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?"

Famine's thin, pasty lips stretch around yellowed teeth. "Doesn't take much -- hardly a push. Oh, America, all-you-can-eat all of the time. Consume, consume. A swarm of locusts in stretch pants. And yet you're all still starving, because Hunger doesn't just come from the body, it also comes from the _soul._ "

Dean raises his eyebrows, an open challenge. "Funny, it doesn't seem to be coming from mine."

"Yes," Famine says, contemplative, "I noticed that. Have you wondered why that is? How you could even walk in my presence?"

Dean offers a charming smile. "Well, I like to think it's because of my strength of character." 

Famine sneers. "I disagree."

He rolls forward, gnarled hand pointed dangerously close to Dean's chest, his fast-beating heart. The ring glints in the dim light, a siren's call that takes all of Castiel's willpower to ignore. His mind is an unceasing litany of " _protect, protect, protect_ ".

_I am protecting!_

Famine's palm comes to rest against the sweat-stained fabric of Dean's shirt. Dean screams. "Oh, yes, I see." Famine chuckles. "That's one deep, dark _nothing_ you got there, Dean." He looks up, grins wider. "Can't fill it, can you? Not with food or drink." His chuckle becomes a full-blown laugh. "Not even with sex."

Fear sparks in Dean's eyes, but he maintains his false smile. "Oh, you're so full of crap."

"Oh, you can smirk, and joke, and lie to your brother, lie to _yourself,_ but not to _me._ " Dean closes his eyes, cringes away from Famine's touch, but the words are just another thing he can't escape. "I can see inside you, Dean. I can see how broken you are, how defeated. You can't win, and you know it. But you just keep fighting, just… keep going through the motions." His tone is elated, the voice of a predator who knows he's about to go in for the kill. "You're not hungry, Dean, because inside, you're already _dead._ "

Dean stares back, empty. He says nothing. No protests, no smart comebacks.

Castiel aches to tell him just how wrong Famine is, how the blank space Famine is perceiving isn't hollow void, but a shell that contains the essence of Dean's soul, crafted lovingly from a shroud of Castiel's Grace, of Gabriel's, of his _own_. 

But that information has the power to kill. Castiel must make the terrible choice to prioritise protection from death over protection from pain. 

"Let him go," comes Sam's voice. Gabriel stands beside him, face filled with uncharacteristic rage. 

Famine turns around, delighted and annoyed in equal parts. "Sam. And _you_." The demons dart forward, quick and lethal grace, but Famine screeches, "Stop! No-one lays a finger on this _sweet little boy._ Or his newest… caretaker." He spits the words out derisively. "Here to watch the show? Orchestrate your own brother's downfall by giftwrapping his new vessel yourself? Just how confident _are_ you that you'll win?" When Gabriel says nothing, he continues, "Hmmm. Well, Sam, did you get the snack I sent you?"

"What?"

"Don't worry," Famine coos. "You're not like everyone else. You'll never die from drinking too much, you're the exception that proves the rule. Just the way… Satan... wanted you to be. So..." He raises his hands in offering, gestures to the demons at his side. "Cut their throats! Have at them! Be my guest."

Dean's eyes widen. Only two people in the room can recognise it's from hope, not fear. "Sammy?"

Sam swallows, takes a deep breath, lifts his hand and _pulls_. Castiel watches the true form of every demon in the room flicker and dissolve, then spew forth from their vessel's mouths like water from a breaking dam. Famine looks on in ecstasy. 

Smoke pools on the diner's blood-stained floor. The demons scream and cry and scrabble uselessly at Sam's hold, but they stay otherwise unharmed. "No," Sam says, decisive. 

Famine's disappointment lasts only a second. "Well… fine. If you don't want them, then _I'll_ have them."

He inhales with a wheezy, rasping gasp, then rips the smoke from the floor with a wave of his hand. The demons beg and plead and sob, but none can break free of Famine's clutches. One-by-one, they all are sucked into Famine's gaping mouth, helpless as newborn lambs. Even Dean seems horrified by the sight. 

Sam raises his hand again. "I'm a Horseman, Sam," he says pityingly. "Your power doesn't work on me."

Gabriel steps forward, half of him still in shadow. He holds up a palm, and Castiel can see it begin to glow in the darkness with the telltale sign of Grace. Famine makes an abortive movement, realising the futility of resisting. "Go get him, tiger," Gabriel offers happily, then brings the palm down on Sam's buttocks with a resounding smack. 

Dean chokes. Sam yelps, and Castiel watches as Gabriel's Grace is absorbed directly into his soul through the conduit on his rear. Castiel doesn't know what else he should've expected. 

Sam sucks in a ragged breath as his soul metabolises the power. Then, he says, "You're right. It doesn't work on you. But it will work on them."

His fist clenches. Famine's face contorts in agony, mouth open in a silent scream to match the wailing of the demons inside him. Sam grunts with the effort of tearing them, wild and flailing, from every pore in Famine's body. Finally, something inside him gives with a sickening snap, and the smoke explodes outward and into the night. 

The ring slips off his finger and onto the ground with a slick thud.

* * *

The ride back to the motel is quiet with shock. Dean's holding the ring in his hand, staring at it without really seeing. The moon and stars are all that light up the car as they cruise down the back roads. Sam's driving, by some unspoken agreement. Perhaps because he hadn't been forced to watch Famine try and cradle his soul and peek inside. 

"You know," Gabriel begins. The brothers startle at the sudden break in silence. "Famine said some stuff back there that piqued my interest."

Dean's eyes skitter from the ring, to Gabriel, back to the ring, and then the window. His mouth twitches like he wants to frown. Instead, he gnaws on his bottom lip, turning it dark red and puffy. Castiel wants to sweep his Grace over the indents of his teeth, heal away the pain. He knows Dean doesn't like the way his mouth looks, had read it in amongst all the rest of the self-hatred in his soul. He'd been sneered at in bars, crude accusation after crude accusation. Castiel doesn't have enough experience in that area to know if Dean really would have an advantage at performing fellatio because of the shape of his mouth. He only knows the jeering had made Dean sick to his stomach. But Castiel had still put them back in place, brushed his feathers across the delicate arches and bows, and admired the beauty of his Father's craftsmanship.

He still does. He wishes Dean could see the same.

"Yeah?" Dean asks, gruff. 

"Famine said Sammy here can't OD on those steroids from Hell they've been pumping him full of." Relief floods Dean's face, smoothed away too late for Castiel to miss it. "Think that probably applies to steroids from Heaven, too. That means we can say that you probably won't end up exploding like our sorry friend back there, Sam! Rejoice!"

"Oh, thanks," Sam says, dry. "What a relief. Yup, probably won't explode, great."

"That was about all he said that wasn't total BS, so I figured it was probs worth mentioning." Gabriel shrugs. 

Dean meets his eye through the rearview mirror for a brief moment, checking for hints of deception. "That so?"

"Indeed it is so, Dean-o. Like I told ya before we hit the morgue, you have a natural affinity for Grace, and that's what kept Famine from putting the 'loco' in our locomotive joyride."

"Uh-huh," he says, sounding unconvinced. 

"How can I be lying to you? I didn't go crazy either. Which theory is more believable: that I'm secretly a black hole of pain and suffering, or that my Grace protected me, same as you?"

"Okay, okay, jeeze. Fine." Dean sighs. "It didn't get to you as much as it got to Cas," he observes, after a pause. "Is that an Archangel thing?"

"Yes and no," Gabriel says. "Partly an Archangel thing, partly a 'no stowaways allowed' thing. It's all me in here, no extra roomie."

"How's that? You kick the last guy out?"

"Hah! I'm a better guest than that. No, this was all Pagan hoodoo. The OG Loki gave me this sweet ride."

"You weren't the original Loki?" Sam asks, instantly curious. 

"Hells no. I may be promiscuous, but even I've gotta draw a line somewhere. And that line is definitely at sleeping with a horse. The line is way before that, actually."

"So he made you a body to keep you safe."

"Divine witness protection, baby." Gabriel winks. "He made an identical twin vessel just for little old me, then let me and mine take the heat for his own family drama. Trust me, it was way easier to handle than my family's."

Sam tilts his head, hair flopping into his eyes. "What about now? Your actual family will recognise you and out you to the rest of the gods, right? Won't the real Loki have to come out of hiding?"

Gabriel lets out a hiss from between his teeth. "Yeah, I've royally screwed him on this one. I'll have to make it up to him somehow, but I can't just sit back on my ass, not knowing what I know now."

"Your top secret plan to save the world," Dean says, sceptically. "I keep asking questions and not getting any answers, man. Questions like: just how in the hell do I have a natural affinity for Grace?"

Gabriel whistles, scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, that's part of that top secret plan."

"What, are you trying to turn me and Sammy into supersoldiers or something?"

"Or something," Gabriel says. "This is less Steve Rogers and more Donald Blake, and that's about as much as I can say right now."

As usual, the reference is meaningless to Castiel, but Sam and Dean both let out a shocked little noise simultaneously. "What the fuck?" Dean breathes. "What's that supposed to mean? You're just gonna leave me with that?"

"Soon," Gabriel promises. "If everything goes according to plan, I won't need to keep you in the dark much longer, I swear."

"You better," Dean mutters, low. Then, he rests his temple against the window and goes back to gazing at the stars. 

The ring glitters in his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, SHIT. It took, like, 10k words, but we've cleared 5x14 and are into greener pastures. And I start laying down more groundwork for my "training a team fit to take on all the forces of Heaven and Hell" plotbunny. I'm really proud of this one, actually! It was a LOT of fun to write hints of what's to come. 
> 
> Also, Gabe. That perv.


	7. Undead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude, my of Jewish descent, Atheist, very much non-spiritual ass had to read the Book of Revelation for this. I am sure the good priests and parishioners would be horrified to know my Bible study was actually for my gay angel gangbang fanfiction. 
> 
> Big divergence from the canon 5x15 here. Still, a few original lines, with mild tweaking.

"The dead are rising in Sioux Falls." Sam closes the laptop, fingers brushing over peeling stickers, adhesive grimy where it's worn through. He glances at Dean, who chokes on his glass of water. Gabriel pats him on the back. 

"Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Sioux Falls?"

"No, Sioux Falls, Mars," Sam quips. "Yes, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Dean."

"Why hasn't Bobby told us about this?" Dean's eyes narrow. "He think he can handle it on his own?"

"No idea." Sam shrugs inelegantly. "But it's definitely not something we can ignore. There've been omens, too. Lightning storms."

"No shit, Sherlock. Zombies and the Apocalypse? That's like cookies and cream level of made for each other. There's no way this is a coincidence."

"Dessert metaphors?" Gabriel's eyelashes flutter as he lets out a contented hum. "Now you're speaking my language."

Not everything in the Bible is accurate, lost in mistranslation after mistranslation or complete fabrication, but Revelation has so far played out practically word-for-word. The dead shall rise again. Apparently in Sioux Falls. 

_Behold, a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him._

"We'll just have to investigate it ourselves," Sam says. He massages his temples. "War, Famine, dead rising. All the Apocalypse's greatest hits. After that mess with the bugs in those townhomes a few years ago, I'm not sure I'm ready for the swarm of locusts, to be honest."

Dean shudders at the memory. "Not a big fan of the killer bee infestation in our lovenest, honey?"

Sam's sigh is long-suffering and his eyeroll overly-exaggerated, but he plays along with whatever shared joke is between them. "Yeah, it really killed the mood, didn't it, sweetie?"

* * *

Books are spread all over the motel bed only half an hour after they've arrived in Sioux Falls. Gabriel runs his hands across the pages with a loving delicacy, inhaling the scent of worn paper. Sam quickly joins him, to the tune of Dean's snide comments about bookworms and nerdy librarians. 

"These are beautiful, Gabriel," Sam tells him reverently. He strokes the spine of a particularly ancient-looking book, the pads of his fingers memorising the feel of the fine gold print. "Where did you get these?"

"Oh, here and there," Gabriel says. "They're from my own personal collection. Theologians who love to share are to thank for a lot of these."

"Some of this stuff seems really obscure," Sam notes. He holds up his latest prize, flicks through it with rapturous eyes. "Is that in Enochian?"

"Got it in one, Sammy." Gabriel's voice is warm and fond, a far cry from its usual haughty, mocking drawl. "Some of these are from the dawn of the Renaissance. Da Vinci himself had his hands on one or two. Michelangelo, for his work on the Sistine Chapel. This was before you could whip out the trusty King James', by the way."

Sam's eyes get even wider. "Oh my god."

Gabriel smiles, for once an innocent, pure thing. "Literally!"

Dean crowds in, peering down at the spread with slightly more reserved curiosity. He leans over Sam's shoulder, balancing carefully on the tips of his toes. "You two geeking out is adorable, I gotta admit, but what's the special occasion?"

"The whole Night of the Living Dead redux is just another reason we need to get you two refreshed on your lessons from Sunday School." Gabriel makes to grab Dean by the ear, but he jumps away in a panicked rush before they can make contact. "I can see your soul trying to leave your body at the thought of Bible study, Dean-o, but it's been a long time since any of us except Cassie here got themselves familiarised with Abrahamic lore. Now is definitely not the time to be rusty, you know that the same as I do."

"You lived it!" Dean protests. "There's no such thing as angel Alzheimer's, is there? Just get remembering!"

Gabriel brushes a knuckle over one of the Bibles, unable to meet Dean's gaze. "It was Saint John who received the prophecy of Armageddon, not me. By then I was already… losing faith. It was just another reason to resent my family. For thousands of years, I've tried not to think about it."

"Until now," Sam says, voice soft with sympathy. "Until the things you've been trying to avoid come crashing through your window at 3AM to give you that dose of reality you've been running from for so long."

"Sam," Dean starts, but doesn't finish. 

"Anyway!" Gabriel claps his hands together. "Let's see what they've got laughably wrong, shall we?"

* * *

"I don't get half this shit," Dean announces. "Trumpets, a bunch of guys in robes, seas boiling. Only thing that doesn't surprise me is the part about your ugly angelic mugs."

"Not everything John was told will have translated over properly," Gabriel explains. "Nobody likes a Celestial game of Telephone. But the point is there: a battle between Heaven and Hell, plague, war, storms and other natural disasters, souls reaped for judgement, yadda yadda. This is where the forces of God are supposed to triumph over the forces of the Devil. Keyword being 'supposed'."

"That's reassuring, thanks."

"You're welcome," Gabriel replies sunnily. "Notice the lack of any third side, here. You're either with God or against Him, no middle ground, no Switzerland. To put it simply, they're not prepared to handle you three stubborn idiots trying to change the narrative."

"Oh, so they're throwing a tantrum because we're refusing to listen to their bullshit. That's just great," Dean says. "It's supposed to be the 'terrible two's', not the 'terrible two thousands'."

"We age slow in this family."

"I'm seeing that," Dean says. "I don't get it, man. Why are they so on board with letting Michael and Lucifer duke it out? Isn't Michael supposed to be head honcho upstairs? He's not too much of a VIP to put his ass on the line?"

"We're warriors," Castiel interrupts. "To fight is considered a great privilege, and to be trusted to defeat Lucifer is the greatest privilege of all."

"They don't think there's a chance in Hell that he could lose? _Literally_ a chance in Hell."

From the moment Castiel had sprung into being, he was taught that Michael was their infallible, ever-burning beacon of righteousness. He followed God's word to its very last letter, and his obedience was rewarded with divine protection. He did as he was told, and so he was God's right hand, God's strongest disciple. His very name was a gift meant to inspire loyalty. 

Michael. _Mikha'el._ **_Who is like God?_ **

No-one. One could only strive to be worthy, as Michael himself did. 

"No," Castiel tells him definitively. "You don't understand, service to Michael is unquestioning. Doubt is not part of the equation."

Gabriel hands Dean one of the books, opened to a specific page. Dean looks down at it, turns it over to the front cover, and raises an eyebrow. "Fine Art of the 17th Century?" Gabriel says nothing, only motions for him to continue reading. "Huh. _The Archangel Michael Defeating Satan_ , Guido Reni, 1635. _The Archangel Michael Overthrowing Lucifer_ , Francesco Maffei, 1656. I'm guessing this is gonna be a theme."

"From Romanesque to Renaissance, from Baroque to Impressionist to Art Nouveau to Vertigo Comics, the world has been saying for years that Mikey comes out on top in this whole fracas. Well, maybe not in that last one." Gabriel picks at a nail, deliberately casual. He isn't as good at hiding his discomfort as he thinks. "Personally, I think all bets are on Michael because a lot of us are too afraid to face what it means if we lose."

"Fair enough." Dean keeps staring at the paintings. "These don't look right," he says, more to himself. 

For some reason, Gabriel's eyes narrow sharply. Heads turn, countless animal faces rising to attention. A raccoon's whiskers twitch, a magpie's beak clacks, a fox's snout quivers. Lips bite at mouths in sudden eager anticipation. Every part of Gabriel's true form has instantly zeroed in on Dean, book balanced in one hand, looking down at classical art like it's caused him personal offence. 

Gabriel's human body gives nothing away. 

Castiel's hackles rise.

"That right?" Gabriel asks, nonchalant. "How so?"

"Dunno," Dean says, puzzled at himself. "Feels like Michael wouldn't look like that."

Gabriel's tone is faintly amused, like the remark means no more to him than any of Dean's other offhand commentary has done over the course of their tentative alliance. But a few hands are clenched into fists; one rests by the hilt of his blade. "Oh? Why not?" The air seems electrified as Gabriel readies himself for the answer. 

Then, Dean just snorts. "Beats me. Too fruity, maybe?"

The tension drains out of Gabriel's body as quickly as it had arrived. "Hah! Angels don't have concepts of gender or sexuality, bucko. We won't fit into constructs from societies that aren't our own, so I wouldn't bother trying. We're not strictly male _or_ female, and we're into whatever being catches our eyes." He stretches out on the bed, languid. "Try it sometime. I know many of you humans do. It's a lot of fun."

"Did I just get told to go to a Pride parade by an angel?" Dean blinks. "I'll make sure to mention that to Pastor Hillbilly back in Lawrence, I'm sure that'll go down well."

"Like I said, Dean-o. Humanity got a lot of the Bible wrong."

* * *

"Bobby hasn't been answering his phone," Dean says. Gabriel has banished his books back to wherever it is he keeps them, and Sam is back to tapping away at the keys on his laptop. "So I figure we should take this social call somewhere he can't ignore: his house. Who's with me?"

Sam nods. "We can't afford the risk of leaving him, anyway," he says. "Not when it's possible he's not ignoring us and something's happened."

Gabriel sighs dramatically. "Then, for the love of our Father, who art not in Heaven, can we please fly there? Your precious gas guzzler will be safe parked here at the motel a few miles away, Scout's honour."

"You're pretty much the opposite of a Boy Scout," Dean snaps back, but his stance is defeated. He rests his forehead in the crook of his arm, perhaps to spare himself the sight of Gabriel's smug grin. "Fine, whatever. Don't drop us."

"Why, Dean, I would never."

Castiel stretches out his wings and readies for flight. He places a steadying hand on Dean's shoulder and is pleased to note he doesn't flinch away, doesn't even tense. Instinctively, Sam links arms with his brother, already familiar with the routine, and Gabriel settles into his place beside Sam. Sam doesn't try to shrug off Gabriel's grip either, which eases something unnameable in Castiel's mind. 

By now, they fly as a cohesive unit, just as they would in formation with a Garrison, and both Winchesters land smooth and unruffled on Bobby Singer's front porch. 

From inside, there's the subtle smell of smoke. "Wait," Castiel cautions, keeping his hand firmly clamped on Dean's shoulder. "Something's wrong."

Dean goes rigid and shoots Castiel a wild, horrified look. "W-what?"

Sam makes a wounded noise.

"Bobby himself is fine," Castiel soothes, quickly. "But there's something else inside. I'm not sure what, it's difficult to identify."

"Smells kinda like a roast ham," Gabriel comments. He scratches his chin idly. "But an otherworldly roast ham."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Dean asks. "He cooking demon for dinner?"

"God, I hope not." Gabriel mimes gagging. "You don't know where that's been."

"There's no scent of sulfur," Castiel remarks. "I doubt it's a demon."

"Okay," Sam says slowly. "Be careful. Got it." Hesitantly, he knocks on the door.

"Well, no explosions, screams, or anything else freaky," Dean tells him. Sam snorts. "That's a good sign, right?"

"Yeah. Think so."

The door opens, revealing an annoyed but otherwise unharmed Bobby Singer. Castiel checks him over a few times to be sure, but finds nothing. He's healthy and alive. "What're you two idjits doing here?" he asks. "And what's with the peanut gallery?"

"Uh, where have you been?" Dean replies instead. 

"Playing murderball," Bobby grouches, but rolls aside to let them in. 

"What's that smell?" Dean sniffs. "Is that soap? Did you clean?"

Bobby glares. "Bite me!" A typical insult in this household, Castiel has noted.

Sam glares right back. "Bobby, seriously." 

"I been working," Bobby says. "You know, trying to find a way to stop the _Devil_."

Dean gives a nod. "Find anything?"

"What do _you_ think?"

Sam huffs. "Bobby, it's just-" he cuts off on an incredulous chuckle. "There's a case less than five miles from your house."

Bobby wheels himself into the sitting room, Sam and Dean close at hand. "What, the Benny Sutton thing? _That's_ what this is about?"

One brother settles at each shoulder, an unconscious mirroring of Castiel and Gabriel's own position just minutes before. "You knew about this?"

"Hell. Yes! I checked into it already, there's nothing here."

Sam blinks at him indignantly. "Except a witness who saw a dead guy commit murder!"

"You're lying," Gabriel cuts in. "To your favourite pair of morons, no less. Now, why might that be?"

"Who you callin' a moron?" Dean growls. 

"The morons who didn't notice they were getting lied to, _moron._ " Gabriel rolls his eyes. 

Dean crosses his arms and tries to look tough, but an embarrassed flush crawls traitorously up his neck. Castiel is oddly endeared. "We can't all have angelic superpowers."

"Doesn't take angelic sight to pick out a tall tale of this height," Gabriel quips. "But okay, you don't like how I'm using my powers? Well, how about this." He stalks over to Bobby, who rolls back and fights not to look too afraid. Gabriel comes to a stop directly in his face, narrows his eyes in disapproval, and flicks Bobby on the forehead. "Now, stand up, get in my face like I just got in yours, and tell me it's nothing."

Bobby's eyes widen. "Did you just-?"

"Yeah." Gabriel motions impatiently at him with one hand. "C'mon, up you go! Try lying to us again."

Bobby looks away, shuts his eyes tightly. He takes a deep breath, then lifts himself out of the wheelchair like a colt on wobbly legs. When his eyes open again, they're covered with a wet sheen. "Thank you," he breathes.

Dean and Sam look between each other, dumbfounded, then open their mouths, presumably to say the same. "Thank me later," Gabriel dismisses. "Just tell us what the hell is going on here in Hickville, South Dakota."

An expression Castiel has difficulty parsing passes over Bobby's face. Longing, fondness, love, aching hurt, a sweet agony. Then it's swaddled away. The warning bells in the back of his mind begin to ring from just the few seconds it's visible. "Better to just show you," Bobby says. He stumbles forward, walking with the grace of an infant on its first steps, and opens the door to the kitchen. In the kitchen, there's a woman. 

A dead woman. 

She's baking pie. 

"Woah," Dean says. After a beat, "Dude, who is that?"

"Karen. My wife," Bobby replies. He shuts the door.

"Your new wife?" Dean hedges. 

"My dead wife."

 _Ah,_ Castiel thinks. Then, unexpectedly, _Oh, shit._

Just another aspect of humanity that Castiel has unknowingly been absorbing into his being. 

"The fuck-" Dean stammers. "Okay, first of all, we don't lie to each other about dead people rising because we've decided to try and add a little necrophilia to our bucket list!" The timbre of his voice rises higher with each word, though he tries desperately to keep it in a whisper. In the end, it comes out more like a reedy wheeze. "Bros before hoes! Second of all, there is no second of all, actually-"

"What Dean means to say is," Sam interrupts delicately, "not cool, dude."

"I can explain."

Castiel internally winces at the words. Explanations never seem to dim the flame of a Winchester's anger. 

Dean throws up his hands, predictably angry and predictably unable to accept placation. "Explain what? The lying? The dead rising? Or the American Girl Zombie making cupcakes in your kitchen?"

"First of all, that's my wife, so _watch it._ "

"Bobby," Sam begs, imploring, "whatever that thing is in there, it is _not_ your wife."

"And how do you know that?" Bobby's voice cracks slightly. Pleading. 

"Are you serious?" Condescension drips from each word.

"You think I'm an idiot, boy? My dead wife shows up on my doorstep, I'm not gonna test her every way I ever learned?"

"So, what is it?" Dean demands. "Zombies? Revenant?"

"Hell if I can tell. She's got no scars, no wounds. No reaction to salt, silver, holy water."

"Bobby, she crawled out of her coffin."

"No, she didn't. I cremated her." Bobby shakes his head. "Somehow, some way, she's back."

"That's impossible," Sam says, but doubt is creeping into his tone.

Bobby raises an eyebrow. "Tell me about it!"

"You bury her ashes?"

"Yeah." Bobby shrugs off the interrogation easily. This is par for the course when it comes to Hunters. Castiel's been on the receiving end too many times not to notice.

"Where?" Dean asks.

"The cemetery, that's where they all rose from."

"How many?"

"Fifteen, twenty. I made a list." He pulls it from his front pocket and delivers it to Sam's eagerly waiting hands. 

Sam unfolds it hastily and categorises each name into memory. "Were there any signs, other than the lighting storms?" he asks, distracted. 

Bobby turns around, grabs a book off his shelf. Dean sighs, loud and drawn out. Even Sam seems annoyed to be confronted with further research, brows furrowing as he notices the now-familiar sight of well-worn paper. "'And through the fire stood before me a pale horse, and he that sat atop him carried a scythe. And I saw that since he had risen, they, too, shall rise. And from him, and through him,'" Bobby reads aloud. The brothers' faces get more and more dismal with each passing word.

"Believe me," Dean says. "We know. Death is behind this."

"Death Death," Sam adds. "Like, 'Grim Reaper' Death."

"Yeah." Bobby nods and sets the book back where he found it. Nobody seems sad to see it returned.

"Another Horseman, another Thursday," Dean mutters. Castiel sees the way the statement seems to make Dean deflate, soul burning bright and yet so, so tired.

"What I don't get," Sam starts, "is why Death would raise fifteen people in a Podunk town like Sioux Falls?"

"I don't know." Bobby spits the words out with a palpable bitterness. Hunters never do well in the dark. That's another thing Castiel has suffered through too many times not to notice.

"You know, if Death is behind this, then whatever these things are? It's not good." For once, Dean seems patient, calmly understanding. If anything, this seems to disturb Bobby even more. "You know what we have to do here."

"She doesn't remember anything, you know," Bobby tells them conversationally. 

"What do you mean?"

"Being possessed. Me killing her. Her coming back."

"Bobby..." Dean trails off, eyes full of pity. It makes Bobby bristle. 

"No, no. Don't 'Bobby' me. Just- just listen, okay?" Bobby angles his head towards the kitchen. In the quiet, Karen hums an offbeat tune to herself. "She hums when she cooks."

"Yeah."

"She always used to hum when she cooked. Tone-deaf as all Hell, but… I never thought I would hear it again." The pity has spread to Sam, now, too, and Bobby looks away in agitation. "Look, you've read Revelation! The dead rise during the Apocalypse, there's nothing in there that says that's _bad._ Hell, maybe it's the one _good_ thing to come out of this whole bloody mess."

"Bobby, I'm sorry," Gabriel says. "But… about that…" Bobby's face falls, a sheer drop that makes something curdle in Castiel's stomach. "There are proper ways to raise the dead. This… isn't one of them. Death is the most powerful of the Horsemen, more powerful than you know. If he raised someone for keeps, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Look at Dean, here. Not so much as a hair out of place."

Dean winces, not for the first time filled with regret at his own continued presence on Earth. Castiel hates it. Hates that Dean feels remorse for simply existing. 

He wonders if part of that remorse is leftover from the Fall.

"She's a little pale, I'll admit," Bobby says plaintively, "but she's still my Karen."

The showy, prideful way Gabriel holds himself shrinks away. All six wings pull in tight to his body, the usually blinding luminescence of them fast fading to a miserable flicker, no brighter than lamplight. "She won't be for much longer."

"What's goin' to happen to her?"

The more canid of Gabriel's heads let out pitiful whimpers, ears drooping. None of his eyes, as many as there are, can look Bobby's way. He tries valiantly to hide it, his vessel puts on a suitably strong front, shoulders squared, chin raised, but his voice is noticeably subdued. A bad liar where it counts. "What usually happens to the undead. A hunger for flesh. Human flesh."

"She- She'll-?"

"I'm sorry. You have maybe a day... at best. I can-" Gabriel swallows. "I can send her peacefully on her way. You won't have to make the same choice twice."

Castiel is gifted with the unique agony of being able to watch as Bobby's soul visibly dims.

"Bobby," Sam says. 

"Don't." Bobby closes his eyes. "Son, just don't."

He turns and walks away. The wheelchair sits, unused and forgotten, in the middle of the room -- a physical ill traded for a spiritual one.


	8. Too Little, Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know TWD actually came out a few months after S5 finished up, but let's give me some artistic liberty and say it aired a lil' early because it was very relevant to the whole Apocalypse thing going on. Like how we're getting a slew of tone-deaf COVID movies now lmao.

Dean hovers around Bobby's house like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Castiel's own feelings aren't far off. Perhaps he is and has always been a simple slave to his Father's strongest programming, but seeing humans in distress makes him feel… untethered. Especially given the depth of caring and respect he has for the humans in this house in particular. 

Bobby stays glued to his wife's side, only leaving to use the restroom or shoo his guests to another wing of the house. Though Dean tries his best not to reveal himself, his eyes follow Karen's every move. 

What's the colloquialism? He looks at her like… a ticking time bomb. 

It makes Bobby furious. "Quit staring at her like she's one of the damn things we hunt."

"She's not right now," Dean hisses. "But how long do you think that's gonna last? An hour? Two hours? A day? You willing to bet your life on that guess?"

Bobby turns and leaves the room. Dean sighs, collapses into a nearby ratty armchair, and rubs his forehead. "I need a drink," he says. 

Gabriel snaps his fingers, and an obnoxiously pink glass bottle appears in one hand. "Strawberry liqueur," he says, with a flourish. "My favourite." 

Dean grabs it. "Y'know what? Fuck it. Might as well." He takes a long gulp, throat bobbing with each swallow. "Tastes as girly and ridiculous as it looks, but I figure it'll do the job if I just keep going…"

"Is it really wise to imbibe alcohol when you're on a case?" Castiel questions. 

"'Imbibe alcohol'," Dean mimics. He takes another swig. "Prolly not," he slurs. "But by God, I need a pick-me-up."

"That's the spirit. Here, have another," Gabriel offers, bowing like a courteous host. "Strawberry daiquiri."

It's in a small martini glass, complete with a little umbrella, and Dean gives it a look of disdain. Still, he knocks it back in one go. "Tastes like slumber parties and pillow fights and braiding each other's hair."

Gabriel seems pleased by this response. "How about-"

"Gabriel, if you offer me another fruity, sugary, neon-coloured abomination to get me girl drink drunk with, I will shoot you."

"That won't do anything."

"It'll make me feel better."

* * *

Castiel doesn't sleep, but he wants to. Seeing Dean passed out in a drunken stupor, Sam asleep with his head resting on an empty plate of Karen's pie, it makes him want the hours to go by faster. Of course, on a planet about to fall into the abyss of Armageddon, it's too risky to treat time as anything but a purely linear concept. Jumping around in the timeline now could doom them in some new terrible way. 

He stands in the middle of Bobby's guest bedroom, one hand gripping the bedpost and the other his own blade, waiting for the undead to finally lose their sanity and feeling every second pass agonisingly slow. Gabriel is cross-legged on the desk in the corner, which creaks dangerously under the weight, and sipping hot chocolate. He licks at the froth of whipped cream on his upper lip. "Whoever was first to rise is first to go Looney Toons, and that's not Karen. Relax. We'll have warning."

"It's not a lack of preparation I'm concerned about." It's the emotional damage. Not that he would voice this aloud. For all Gabriel's social aptitude, he's not much more emotionally literate than Castiel himself sometimes. Still stuck in their Heavenly Father's punitive mindset, plus an edge of Pagan vindictiveness. He knows when humans suffer, but he doesn't always know how to ease that suffering anymore, no solid strategy to rely on beyond conjured chocolates. They're out of touch, both of them. "Don't forget, we need to keep watch over Bobby."

"Yeah, there's no making that better, is there?" Gabriel sighs. "We're too little, too late. That's not how I usually like to do things."

"We couldn't have known." Castiel lets go of the bedpost. "There are simply too many possible futures to accurately predict anything."

"Feels like I should be able to narrow them down some. But every single one seems just as stupid and unlikely as the last. Any of them could happen. Time hasn't been this fractured in a long while." Gabriel sips his drink, pensive. "Damn."

"This _is_ a time of unprecedented turmoil."

"Say it ain't so," Gabriel says dryly. "That's the Apocalypse for ya."

"I'm attempting to be helpful," Castiel grits out. "There's no need for sarcasm."

"There's always a need for sarcasm," Gabriel replies. "But I'll admit I'm a little touchy. This is a mess. I miss the nineties. They really knew how to party back then."

"I'm sure Dean would agree."

"Yeah, he'd have liked me a lot more back in high school, wouldn't he?" Gabriel hums. "Wonder what that says about me."

"Nothing good," Sam grumbles. He blinks up at them sleepily. "Now, would you do me a favour and use your inside voice? Please? Some of us are trying to sleep here. Or at the very least, don't use my research desk as your chair."

"As opposed to using it as a bed like you are, Sambo?"

"Better yet, just shut up completely. That would be nice."

"If wishes were fishes." Gabriel gives Sam's hair a condescending pat. 

"Eat me."

Once Sam has dozed off again, Gabriel transports his body onto the bed next to his brother with a snap of his fingers. They both mumble something unintelligible, grapple briefly over the blankets, then resume snoring. Gabriel huffs a quiet laugh. "Cute as a button, both of them." He smiles, a small, warm thing, and gently ruffles each brother's hair. "Shhh. Don't tell them I said that."

Castiel doesn't know why he would. Dean would hardly take it in the spirit it's intended. And Sam wouldn't believe him.

* * *

Bobby is asleep in the armchair by the fireplace when the brothers rise in the morning. They filter into the kitchen with caution, rumbling stomachs the only noise to give them away, and settle by the counter. Almost every inch of the kitchen is covered in pie after pie after pie. Karen is tending to yet another in the oven, brushing flour-covered hands on her apron. 

Without context, it would make a sweet, domestic picture, one that's no doubt comforting and tinged with longing for most Hunters, the Winchesters included. But with context, it seems to serve only as a reminder of everything that's been lost. Sam excuses himself quickly, and Dean looks wary, off-kilter. "Smells good," he says, a little blankly. 

"Thank you, you boys feel free to help yourselves, okay?" Karen replies. She hands Dean a knife, which he looks at nervously. He spends a few minutes motionless, knife poised in hand over a flaky, buttery-looking raspberry pie, before sighing and cutting himself a slice. Satisfied this pie is as innocent as the others and won't spread its maker's deathly condition, he digs in, then hums in pleasure. "I don't know what it is, but since I got back, I can't stop baking!"

Dean purses his fruit-stained lips. "Yeah, when do you have time to sleep?"

"I don't," she says simply. "Must be the excitement."

"Or being dead."

Karen takes a deep breath, wipes her hands off on her apron again. "I know you don't trust me."

"Why would you say that?"

"Come on, Dean. That's why you're here, isn't it? Keeping an eye on me?" She turns around to face him with a sardonic smile. "I know who you are, even before my husband started walking on two legs again, I knew. Just like I know Bobby's not the same mild-mannered scrap dealer I married. You hunt things." She sighs. "I-I'm a thing. I get it."

Dean's gaze is unwavering. "So you know that Sam and I would never let anything happen to Bobby. He's like a father to us."

"I understand," she says. "And he's lucky to have you looking out for him, Dean. But you're not the only one."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

She turns back to kneading her dough. "I- I remember everything, you know," she tells him. "When I died. That demon taking over my body, the things it made me do. And Bobby having no choice but to… well, you know what he did." She swallows, stretches the dough out by rote, a faraway look on her face. "But I can see it in his eyes when he looks at me. The guilt. It weighs on him."

"So why don't you just tell him you remember?"

Karen shakes her head, a little sad. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you've never been in love," she guesses. "He's my husband. My job is to bring him peace, not pain. It's my duty to protect him."

Castiel thinks he understands. He was assigned a similar duty in Heaven, the duty to protect and care for Dean, his righteous, precious ward, who held Destiny in his hands. While Castiel has been a bearer of pain as well as peace, his goals were only ever to keep Dean safe and on the right path. 

Obviously, his definition of the right path has changed fairly significantly since this all began, but the point stands. 

A series of complicated expressions pass across Dean's face at the words, none of them particularly positive, so Castiel jumps in before anyone says something they regret. "I understand," he says. "It's my duty to protect Dean, as well."

Karen blinks. "Oh, I'm sorry. Are you two-?" She gestures between them vaguely. Castiel tilts his head in confusion when the meaning registers. Is that the impression she got from them? He doesn't still wear James Novak's wedding ring. He hadn't meant that statement as anything other than a declaration of his own dedication as one of the warriors God created to protect and defend His realm. 

Though, of course, he does have a fondness for Dean as an individual. Even when he acts stubborn and reckless and jeopardises the mission. Perhaps that's more obvious than Castiel thought he let on.

Dean flushes the same shade of raspberry as his pie. "No! No!" He coughs, flustered. "Not like that. Cas is, uh. My own personal guardian angel. Literally."

"Not just yours, Dean." Castiel sighs. "I have many God-given duties. Though, keeping you from harm does sometimes seem to be the most difficult."

"Ha. Ha."

"You're an angel?" Karen asks, voice a little shaken by awe. "As in, with wings? A halo? That kind of angel?"

"An angel of the Lord, yes." Castiel nods. 

"Wow," she says. "But- I was under the impression you all were somewhat on the run. I may or may not have overheard some things about omens and other bad signs… and obviously I'm not supposed to be back here in the first place." 

"As an angel, I have a responsibility to uphold God's will," Castiel allows. "Angels are supposed to always represent His principles as the holy warriors who guard His creation. But we no longer agree on how His principles should be interpreted. I'm in the minority in my interpretation, as is everyone here. And we're being hunted for it."

"And God Himself can't tell you which side has it right?"

Castiel looks away. "No. God is not currently in Heaven, and we have no way of contacting Him. Essentially, Heaven considers Him… missing."

Karen's hands pause on her dough. "Missing?"

"Yeah," Dean says, bitter. "That's how we got into this whole damn mess. Guess nobody knows what to do when Daddy's not around to give orders, so they figured they'd throw a tantrum until he gets back."

"I- I see. I'm sorry."

"It is what it is." Dean shrugs. "We make do. It's how Hunters always get by, right? We ain't nothing if not adaptable. I mean, it's that or… well. You get the point."

"More than you know," Karen says.

* * *

Sam ambles back into the kitchen awkwardly, Bobby's list held out in one hand like a peace offering. "So, uh. We should probably get to tracking down all these people. Before-" He looks at Karen, winces. "Before."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "Gimme." He makes grabbing motions until Sam hands the list over with a roll of his eyes. "Let's see here." He mouths the names, muttering under his breath. "This'll be real fun."

"Jody Mills' kid," comes Bobby's voice. The brothers graciously part to make room for Bobby's entrance. "You'll wanna be careful there. She's the sheriff. We're on pretty good terms, should let me do all the talking on that one."

Dean scoffs, crosses his arms. "And say what? 'Sorry, lady, but your son is about to go all Walking Dead on your ass. You need to cuff him before he can do a dine and dash, stat.' Yeah, that'll go over like a house on fire. How old is this kid anyway?"

"Not outta Kindergarten yet."

"And the munchkin is gonna get munchin'? Really?"

"Don't look at me," Bobby growls. "And for Chrissake, boy, have some tact."

"Certainly ain't for his sake," Dean snaps back. "And you sure as Hell can't tell me ignorance is bliss here. If I was gonna wake up one day with a craving for brains, I'd wanna know a little ahead of time."

Castiel feels a trickle of annoyance seeping in. Incessant bickering will do nothing, and nothing is something they currently can't afford to do. "We don't have time for this," he says. 

He hears the rustle of feathers, takes a deep breath he doesn't need. "Right on the money on that one, Cas," Gabriel says. The boys don't startle, but Bobby and Karen do. "I'm sorry, but it _will_ happen, jokes or no jokes. Trust me, I'd know. I quit with the whole 'oops, too soon?' moral quandary once I realised it doesn't make a damn bit of difference." He shrugs, grabs himself a slice of pie. "I'd say you should take it up with God if it bothers you, but He's not dans la maison right now. That's probably why, actually." He takes a bite. Gold eyes crinkle in pleasure, at complete odds with the hopelessness in everyone else's. "Though this is more Death's domain. Even Dad has to follow his rules when it comes down to it, although He does get to bend them a little. Mmm, this is delicious, by the way. My compliments to the chef."

"T-thank you," Karen stutters out, weakly. 

"Anywho, let's get this show on the road, shall we?" Gabriel licks his lips, tongue swiping away every last spare crumb. "Now, who was first?" He plucks the note from Dean's hands. His eyes flick over it for only the briefest second. "Ah, there's our lucky winner. Ezra Jones. Time to play divine repo man, boys. Ándale!"

With that, he spreads his wings, and in a blink, Castiel resigns himself to following suit as Gabriel whisks the Winchesters out of Bobby's kitchen without another word. 

* * *

"What the fuck?" Dean yells. He teeters worryingly on the edge of falling face-first onto Ezra Jones' overgrown lawn before managing to right himself. "A little warning would'a been nice over here! Y'know, for once!" Gabriel flips him off, playful, no signs of being off-balance whatsoever. "Oh, that's just- thanks a lot for nothing at all, you son of a-"

"What's that smell?" Sam interrupts. Castiel feels a pang of sympathy at the sudden nauseated, ashen pallor of his skin. "Jesus, it's like-"

"Like something died?" Gabriel finishes, smartly. "I dunno, can you really say that when that something came back afterwards?"

"You know what's gonna be dead next?" Dean hisses. 

"Relax. What's a little joyriding between friends?"

"You call that a joyride?"

"Is- is that Ezra?" Sam asks, ignoring everything else completely. "Not even Karen smells like that."

"I know," Gabriel says. "It's, uh. She's going bad."

"Oh," Sam says. "Just what I wanted to hear, Gabriel. 'Going bad.' Like she's sour milk or seafood leftovers. Eurgh." He gags. "That's real nice, thanks for that."

"Hey! Careful what you wish for, then. You asked, so I delivered."

"Very polite," Sam grits out. "Is she gonna be a problem? Beyond the bad smell, I mean?"

"Nothing you can't handle, kiddo. Especially with the supernatural cocktail running through your veins right now."

"Yeah, use the Force to gank that bitch, Sam." Dean grins. "Rule 2, double tap!"

"Stop mixing references and come help, jerk."

"Whatever, bitch."

The house is in disarray, items scattered everywhere like the scene of a crime. But there's no evidence anyone else has forced their way inside; this mess is all Ezra Jones' own work. 

There's a hacking cough from further in, a horrible, wet, wheezing thing that makes Dean and Sam go tense and quiet. Her ragged breaths are laboured enough that Castiel is almost surprised a Reaper isn't here already. She doesn't have long left. 

She's laid out on the bed, restless, straining, eyes glassy and not all there. There's frothy spit gathering at the sides of her mouth, far too like a rabid animal. She takes a moment to register their presence, a hollow moment where there's no recognition in her stare, practically back in the grave already. What an ugly end Death has chosen for her second beginning. 

"Mrs. Jones?" Sam calls. 

"Come… here…" she rasps. 

"You can't tell us from here?" Sam blurts out, shocked petulant. 

"Come," she repeats, hacks another cough, fluid gargling as her lungs cling to the last remnants of her life. Sam looks to Dean, then swallows, steels himself, and steps in front of his brother like a shield. 

"Hey!" Dean gripes. Sam ignores him, keeps his body firmly anchored between Dean and the not-quite-human thing lying before them. Castiel is both annoyed and somewhat charmed by their overprotectiveness towards each other. He steps forward, intent on taking care of it himself, but Gabriel grips his shoulder.

"Let Sammy get some practice," Gabriel says. "He has to know what he's doing if he wants Plan Z to have a fighting chance."

Sam side-eyes him. "And you choose now to start my training? Really?"

Gabriel shrugs. "'Course, I'll train with you more later, but there's no time like the present, eh, Samsquatch? Now hop to it!"

Sam groans, but ultimately complies. He chews on his lip, inches a few steps closer, tongue peeking out from between his teeth as he concentrates. "What am I supposed to be doing again?"

"Using your sexy hybrid superpowers, duh."

"Yeah, I got that," Sam snaps. "I mean, what specifically?"

"You act like there's some kinda 'angel-demon-human juice cleanse' handbook I'm supposed to be reading from." Gabriel snorts. "I'm as clueless as you are. It's a fun change of pace, I gotta say!"

"Well, I don't!" Sam jolts when Ezra makes a stilted attempt to lift herself off the bed. "And I think she's getting stronger."

"Safe to say, if you've seen a demon or an angel do it, you can probs manage something close enough. Just think real hard about it in that big brain of yours. It's like learning to ride a bike."

"Except there wasn't a chance I'd get eaten alive when I learned how to ride a bike, you ass."

"You did have me cheering you on, though," Dean pipes up. "You can do this. Do or do not, there is no try, yadda, yadda. Just believe in the Force, Luke! Believe in it like it believes in you, man."

Once again, Castiel is entirely baffled by the Winchesters' language of references and colloquialisms. But Dean's coaching seems to relax Sam, so he supposes it must be working.

"You are the actual worst Jedi Master, you know that?" 

"Fuck you, I'm great." Dean waves a hand. "Do your thing. Or do I need to get out the pom-poms and miniskirt for this cheerleading gig?"

"Oh my god," Sam says. "You could at least have the decency to keep your fetishes to yourself when I'm trying to save your sorry ass."

Castiel blinks. "You enjoy wearing feminine clothes? Ah, I see. That explains the-"

Dean goes rigid as a whip. "Don't finish that sentence if you know what's good for you, Cas."

Castiel sighs. Humans and their bizarre pathology of sexual repression. 

With a strangled yell, Sam throws his arm out frantically and flexes his fingers in an imaginary grip. Ezra leaps off the bed, and with a flick of his wrist, Sam suspends her in midair. "Woah," he and Dean chorus. 

"I never thought I'd be glad to have to fight a zombie," Sam grits out. "But it's just that kinda day, I guess."

Ezra floats, flailing like a fish out of water, making panicked little growls. Thick drool drips in a pitter patter down to the floor. Dean makes a noise of pure disgust. "That's some nasty shit," he says. "Fuck, she's worse than a dog. I think some got on my shoe, dude -- feels like I've been violated. Just put her down already, Sammy!"

"She's still a person, Dean," Sam lectures, but Dean just makes a show of retching, words falling on deaf ears. 

"Not anymore she ain't!" he snaps, Kansas drawl getting thicker the more Ezra squirms, Southern roots showing more and more as he shifts his energy from speaking to avoiding her gnarled grasp. "Put her out of her misery before she slobbers her way through any more poor sons of bitches. I swear to God, if you let us become appetisers-"

Sam gives Ezra one last pitying look, then twists his wrist in one sharp motion, wincing at the sick crack of the vertebrae in her neck. She goes limp, limbs hanging loose like a ragdoll's, and he lowers her gently to the floor. "We need to find the others before they can get this bad. This is really fucked up, even for us."


	9. Angels Don’t Wear Plaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's gory again, fair warning. The latter part of the chapter should be fine though. 
> 
> Vomit CW as well, though it's very brief at the end of the chapter.

Systematically working through a designated area and eliminating certain targets isn't a new experience for any of Team Free Will, given the burdens of their duties as their fathers' soldiers, but putting down the undead who are still clinging desperately to their last remnants of humanity has still left them sick to their stomachs. Castiel feels a flicker of anger at Death for this mess that seems tailor-made to create pain and suffering for everyone involved. The Reaper's job is to collect souls for the afterlife, not play with them like toys. 

Sam is shaky and jumps at every unexpected noise, sweat pooling at his temples and dripping down his nose. It’s only Dean’s hands carefully patting his back that stops him from leaning down to vomit into the gutter. “Are your powers hurting you?” Castiel asks.

“No,” Sam says. “Running through town snapping people’s necks left and right is what’s hurting me.”

Castiel attempts to mimic Dean’s comforting gestures. Sam raises an eyebrow as Castiel’s hand comes awkwardly down on his shoulder, but doesn’t pull away. “They’re no longer human.”

“Human enough,” Sam says, and leaves it at that.

Eventually, they no longer need Bobby's list, tracking the undead down by scent alone. The sweetness of rot, intensified a thousand times over. Sam's eyes are watering. Nobody asks if it's because of the smell. 

It's late by the time they reach the sheriff's house, sun long since dipped below the horizon, crickets chirping like it's any other day. Sam takes one look at the perfectly-kept yard and the potted plants on the windowsill and makes a noise like a kicked dog. "Sheriff Mills is the one with the kid, right?" 

"Hey," Dean jumps in, soothing. "You're saving her life. This is just another case, okay? Saving people, hunting things."

"This isn't a salt-and-burn, Dean. Or even a headshot. I'm- I have to-"

"It's safer for everyone if you use your powers, kiddo," Gabriel says. "Once they get like this, it's too late to give them a peaceful send-off."

"Yeah?" Sam spits. He crowds into Gabriel's space, towers over him, using every extra inch, but Gabriel doesn't tense, or step back, or even so much as blink. "And the part of me snapping necks like one of your KitKats, is that the angelic part? Or is it the other part of me, the demonic part -- the _freak_ part?"

"Angels kill, too, Sam. That's the fun thing about this world, nobody, not anybody, is as pure as they claim to be." Gabriel holds out his hands, placating, but his tone is bitter. "There's no point in angsting over the moral high-ground. The difference between angels and demons used to be in our end goals, not our methods, and now we don't even have that. So what's the use in figuring out which is which? There are bad angels and good demons. Up is down. Left is right." Gabriel shrugs, elaborately, theatrically. "Take the hint: it doesn't fucking matter any more." He punctuates each word with a sharp jab of his index finger to Sam's chest. 

Sam rears back. "What matters is making sure I don't become a monster before Lucifer even gets the chance to wear me like a suit!"

Dean sucks in a breath. "Hey, hey, look at me. You're not a monster. You've never been a monster, Sammy. You're a lot of things -- my brother, too tall for your own good, my own personal pain in the ass, but not that. Never that. Okay?"

"Yes, I am, Dean," Sam cries. The ground rumbles beneath him, which only makes more tears well in his eyes. "Look at me. Hell, you even said it yourself!"

Dean looks like he's been slapped. "When did I _ever_ say that?"

"The voicemail you left me. Where you said I was a bloodsucking freak, a monster. That you were gonna hunt me down. Remember?"

"The hell?" The colour has drained from Dean's face entirely. He staggers, presses his weight back against Castiel like his legs can't hold him up anymore. Castiel grips his shoulders, steadies him instantly. His instincts scream that Dean's been physically wounded somehow, that the pallor of his face is from blood loss, some cut that Castiel's missed. But Dean is unharmed, Castiel's Grace curling protectively around his skin. "I wouldn't say that shit to you, Sammy. Not in a million goddamn years. When- when was this?"

"Just before… before I broke the Final Seal."

"Jesus," Dean breathes, voice gutted. "All this time, and you thought I-? No, Sammy, I didn't send that message, I swear to God I didn't."

Tears are streaming openly down both brothers' cheeks. "Then who did?" Sam croaks.

"Sam," Castiel begins, gently, "both Heaven and Hell wanted you to break that seal. Either side could have been responsible for attempting to manipulate you."

He suspects he knows which one.

He's been disappointed in Heaven many times since he was first tasked with watching over the Winchesters, and no doubt this won't be the last, but the wave of regret still stings. Sam is a good man, even though his inherited stubbornness has led him into countless mistakes, and the fate the world has been trying its best to doom him to isn't one he deserves. This feels like an extra dose of agony, another straw added to the pile of final straws life keeps handing them. Nothing is more sacred to Sam and Dean than their bond with each other. Castiel doesn't know what's worse: that Sam had this misapprehension worrying away at the back of his mind for so long, or that Heaven had put it there in the first place. 

"Yeah, and I let them. Shit, I didn't even stop to think it was a trick. I was so caught up in everything, how I kept fucking up, I didn't even-"

"It's okay." Dean steps forward, surer on his feet, and wraps Sam in a hug. The height difference makes it a little awkward, Dean's arms thrown over Sam's neck and one of Sam's hands on Dean's hip to keep him from stumbling back again, but neither one of them lets go. "We're gonna fix it, make this right. Team Free Will or bust, ain't that the deal?"

"Yeah, Dean." Sam smiles, a little wobbly. "That's the deal."

The sound of a horrified scream sends the two careening back into their remaining teammates. Gabriel makes a surprised 'oof', but catches Sam in one hand without issue. To an angel, even a human of Sam's considerable size and strength weighs practically nothing.

Dean tumbles back against Castiel. The impact knocks the breath from him in a panicked wheeze, and he slumps dangerously towards the ground. Castiel hooks his arms under Dean's shoulders and lifts. 

Dean brushes himself off, pink at the bridge of his nose and creeping further. "Guess we shouldn't have stood around so long."

Sam nods. He's swiftly recovered already, no hints of his previous turmoil in his face. "The kid's probably already turned. I'll go check it out. Stay behind me, alright?"

Dean rolls his eyes, but nevertheless stays at Sam's tail. 

Sam unlocks the door without needing to touch it. He rushes into the house in hurried strides of his long legs, strides that even Dean struggles to keep up with, breathing heavy and quick with adrenaline. There's blood on the floor of the living room, seeping thick and syrupy into the plush rug underneath the couch. The undead child kneels in the middle of it all, chin wet and dark red, stringy flesh caught in his teeth. His father's neck gapes under his hands. 

Jody Mills is standing at the entrance to the kitchen, alive and for the moment, uninjured. Her husband and son can't say the same. 

"Owen? Oh, God. Owen!"

Almost too late, or perhaps not late enough, depending on how one looks at it. Castiel has certainly lost his family, yes, and though his fractured relationship with Heaven comes close to this level of horrifying tragedy at times, he's at least granted the angelic strength necessary to bear it. For Jody, this must be more than a nightmare, worse than Hell. In Hell, at least, your loved ones don't usually join you. 

Zachariah had once called him 'depressingly soft-hearted for a footsoldier'. Then, the words had confused him. He hadn't considered himself any more empathetic than anyone else in the Garrison. But now, seeing this thoughtless cruelty and knowing the sizable part the rest of Heaven has played in orchestrating it, he thinks he understands what Zachariah meant. 

Where had things gone so wrong? And why is Castiel one of the only angels to notice it?

Did God make the precious handful of angels that fight for free will as a gift or a curse? Are they supposed to be the delusional, freakish abominations or the few true believers in this chaos?

Questions like these are why Castiel continues to rebel, despite everything. 

Jody lets out a choked sob. "C'mon," Sam urges. "We need to leave. Now."

"My husband!"

"Leave it! He's dead!"

Jody just stares at the bodies, dazed. Sam grabs her arm and drags her out of the house, shutting and locking the door behind him with the wave of a hand. She doesn't remark on the blatant use of supernatural power, only stumbles onto the front porch and swallows, throat clicking. "That was _not_ my son."

"You're right," Sam says. "It wasn't." His hands come to rest on her shoulders. “Listen, Sheriff, the town is in danger. We could only track down so many of the undead in the time we had, so we could really use your help right now.”

Jody tries to stifle another sob, and only barely succeeds. Dean steps up, hands fidgeting awkwardly at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them. "Listen, I know this sucks major ass. I get it, I really do. I've lost people I thought I had back, and it's not something that you can just forget. But we need to get moving right now, or we could get seriously chomped. The zombies won't wait around. They could be less than a mile away right now, for all we know, and they don't move slow like they do in the movies. And I'm talking superhuman speed here, not just a powerwalk."

The matter-of-fact, no-nonsense tone seems to activate something from Jody's years of training, and she snaps out of her grief-stricken paralysis. "How do we put them down?"

"Headshot," says Sam. 

Her voice still trembles. "We're gonna need weapons."

"We can start by rounding up everybody we can find. Where's there a safe place we can take people?"

"Jail," Jody says, without hesitation.

Sam blinks. "Right. We'll take care of things out here as best we can. You and whoever you find need to stay inside and ride out the night here in case anything gets through. I'm gonna try my best to stop that from happening, but…" he pauses. "Things can always go wrong."

At this, Jody barks out a hysterical, miserable laugh. "Right."

"Just- let me start by taking care of this." He turns around and takes a few steps toward the house. Jody grips his sleeve, knuckles white, and Sam gives her a patient look. She looks back, anguished, and then drops her hand. 

Sam walks into the house. 

Castiel counts forty seconds, watches Jody with her face in her hands, Dean dithering at her side, not knowing how to be helpful. Gabriel just looks tired. His wings are low to the ground, eyes hooded, bone-deep weariness in every breath he doesn't need to take. 

Sam walks out of the house. There isn't a spot of blood on him save for what's in the treads of his shoes. "It's done," he says. Jody jerks her head in a nod. "We've gotta go." She nods again. "I'm sorry."

* * *

Jody takes the townspeople to the jail, and Gabriel takes them on a meandering route through back alleys and beaten pathways until every last living corpse is gone. By the end, Sam's tense as a bowstring, closed-off and empty-eyed.

The journey finishes back where it first began -- at Singer Salvage. The moon shines high over the graveyard of car husks and rusted metal. For a moment, everything's quiet. Peaceful. 

"There's still one we missed here. We've got to deal with it now, while we still can. She won’t have fully turned yet," Gabriel says. "I'll do it, Sam. And if someone shows up at the jail, I'll take care of them, too. You did good, alright? Take a rest."

Sam doesn't protest. He brushes past, trails a hand over Gabriel's shoulder, and heads straight for his room. 

Dean stares after his retreating figure for a brief moment, then joins Castiel in following Gabriel up the stairs. Gabriel's wings sag once more, feathers trailing low on the ground behind him. It seems wrong to see such lustrous feathers, all those rich golds tipped with deep purples and pinks, thrown to the floor like garbage to be discarded. Like sullying something sacred. In a way, it is.

Karen’s lying in Bobby’s bed, pale and shaking, when Gabriel opens the door. Bobby sits at her side, their hands intertwined, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. “She’s turning,” Gabriel says, more of a statement than a question.

Bobby nods. “It’s okay,” Karen chokes out, barely more than a whisper. “Do it.”

“No way,” Bobby tells her.

“ _Please._ ”

He shakes his head, frantic. “No.”

Karen’s lips tremble. “I remember,” she says, after a moment. 

“Remember what?”

“Everything.” She smiles weakly up at him. “The demon inside me. You killing me. I _remember._ ”

Bobby’s expression crumples. “Then you know why I can’t lose you again.”

She squeezes his hand, just once, then turns her head as best she can towards the stragglers at the doorway. “I remember something else, too.” Gabriel tenses. “When I came back, there was a man.”

“What do you mean, a man?” Bobby asks.

Castiel already knows who Karen saw. Bobby knows, too, he suspects. He must dread the confirmation. The finality of it all. The sheer power at play here, power most humans struggle to comprehend. Then again, most humans don’t have to.

“He was so thin.” Karen’s gaze is faraway at the memory. “Like a skeleton. And he told me to give you a message.”

Bobby’s eyes widen. “ _Me?_ W-why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“You’ve seen so much. I just- I just wanted to see you smile.”

“What was the message?”

* * *

Dean storms out of the room, hands tearing at his hair and downwards, nails raking little pink trails over his cheeks. “The fuck? The fuck are we supposed to do with this?” He’s pacing, not quite heading down the stairs, but not quite staying at the landing, either. “Death’s targeting Bobby? Death’s targeting people on our side? For what? Daring to stand up to this bullshit plan God probably cooked up while Celestially coked out of his mind thousands of years ago?” He throws up his hands. “Y'know, you’d think he’d be on our side. Our side means less work. Seven billion souls less work. But who's counting? 'Cause it sure as Hell doesn't seem to be them."

“Dean,” Castiel begins. But he doesn’t have anything he can say that will soothe the rage radiating from Dean’s every pore. He can’t even soothe his own rage, bubbling up his throat, hot and thick and dark like tar. “Death didn’t succeed in his mission. We’ve kept everyone here safe. Bobby’s safe.”

It’s only them on the landing, them and the spiders nestled in the cobwebs stuck to the corners of the high ceiling. Gabriel had chosen to remain inside to perform his duty, and Bobby to see his wife through to the end. It’s eerily quiet, just the sounds of their breaths and the draft creeping through the aging windows.

“He may not have gotten Bobby ripped to shreds, but he sure as Hell broke him! Him and half this backwater shithole of a town.” Dean sits down on the top stair, all the energy leached from him in a rush. “Christ. Every time you think, ‘Hey, at least it can’t get any worse’, it does. Every time we make any progress, something fucks it all to Hell the next day. Tell me, Cas, is this all just a complete fucking waste of time? Are we just fighting the inevitable here? I mean, is there even a point to all this?”

“Of course there’s a point,” Castiel growls, true voice leaking through, shaking motes of dust from old shelves into the beams of moonlight. His heads rear back, fangs bared in a vicious snarl, though Dean cannot see them. “I rebelled for this, Dean. The right to free will, to self-determination. I distinctly remember that it was _you_ who told us we either emerged victorious or ‘went down fighting’. Will you surrender to them now? After everything we’ve been through?”

“‘Course I won’t,” Dean snarls back, but the anger lasts only a split second. He puts his head in his hands. “I just- every win feels like a loss. At some point, you have to wonder if we’re the chumps in this cosmic shitshow, not them.” He looks up, pleading. “I still don’t know a damn thing about Gabriel’s big plan.”

"Yeah," comes a voice. Dean whips around and comes face-to-face with Gabriel, who's wringing his hands. From guilt or exhaustion, Castiel can't tell. There isn't a speck of blood on him. "About that."

Dean blinks wide eyes, bodily fighting the hope Castiel can see trying desperately to ignite within his soul. "Are you gonna fill me in on that?"

"You and your brother." Gabriel sighs, scrubs his eyes. His vessel's eyes only. He may have many hands in his natural body, but still they aren't enough to cover all the necessary ground. Castiel doesn't know why God designed angels this way, perhaps out of some warped cosmic irony, given their spectacular failure to be all-seeing, or perhaps He'd only been thinking of the practicalities of multifaceted vision in combat. His Father's decisions truly do grow more and more unfathomable each day. "Sam'll definitely wanna be here for this."

"I'll go get him," Dean starts, but he's cut off. 

"No, no," Gabriel dismisses. "He's done enough. I'll tell you two in his room. Though you'll probably want to be lying down for this, too, _siasch_." Despite being limited to a human voice, the Enochian slides off his tongue with practiced ease.

 _Siasch_. Brother. 

"Man, you're kinda freaking me out a little here, saying shit like that," Dean says, more nervous than annoyed. "Just how radical _is_ this plan exactly?"

"Very," Gabriel replies. "And it's not going to be easy. Not even to hear about, let alone attempt."

Dean's hands clench into fists. "Whatever it is, I'm ready. We can't keep going like this. We already had a big enough target on our back at the start. Now that Death's added another, someone's gonna end up dead. Or worse. At this point, it's just a matter of time."

"I know," Gabriel agrees. "That's why I have to tell you now. Even if you don't want to hear it, and trust me on this, I know you don't." He beckons them down the stairs. "Let's go. The sooner we get this over and done with, the better."

Dean follows dutifully behind, footsteps light. Gabriel's face is grim, grimmer with every step. By the time they reach the guest room Sam's collapsed in, he looks almost nauseous. The doorknob squeaks and light filters in soft streams onto the bed. Sam stirs, props himself half-way up, and rubs the sleep from his eyes. "Guys?"

"Hey, kiddo," Gabriel greets. "I'd let you sleep some more, but Karen told us something, something that means we have even less time than I thought."

"Told you what?"

"Death did all this for Bobby. Made it personal. Anyone who's worked with you, or plans to, could be next. I'm sorry."

Sam covers his face in one broad palm. "Shit," he says. "Shit, shit, shit. What are we gonna do now?"

"My plan." Gabriel gives Dean a gentle push. "Lie down next to your brother, Dean. And try to breathe. I don't need you giving yourself a concussion or passing out on us."

Castiel braces himself. Dean may have accepted Sam's inhuman nature without issue, but he's had years to come to terms with his brother's increasing power. Nothing can prepare him for the sheer mind-numbing grip of terror that comes with being suddenly confronted with the knowledge that he's not human, that he's never _been_ human. His entire sense of self has been built on a bed of lies.

Castiel knows the feeling well. Nothing could have prepared him for it, and he's billions of years older than Dean. Rather, billions of years older than the extent of Dean's currently limited memory. 

Sam's gaze goes sharp and clear in an instant. "You're gonna tell us?"

"Yeah. 'Fraid so." Gabriel waits patiently for Dean to join Sam on the bed, then says, "We need to take a trip to Lawrence." 

"What?" Dean splutters. "I thought we were running out of time, not taking a nice long stroll down memory lane!"

"There's something there we need to find." 

"Huh?" Dean raises an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"A park, a garden, I dunno." Gabriel shrugs. "Go looking for some astronomer's overexcited letter to the editor. I don't track meteor strikes."

Sam's eyes widen. "You've gotta be fucking shitting me."

Dean tilts his head, catching on quickly. "Your big plan is to find some fallen angel in our hometown? I hate to break it to you, but nobody except Mom and Dad watched over us as kids. And they're dead. Cas was our first and only guardian angel until you came along."

Sam's frozen in place. "This meteor strike. Did it happen to take place in- in the spring of 1978, maybe? Like, around April?"

Gabriel nods. "Nothing gets past you, kid. I like that."

"You can't be-" Sam tries to stumble out of bed, but Gabriel flies to his side in a split second. 

"I can be. And sit down, Sammy, before you sprain something."

Sam falls back onto the bed, loose like a ragdoll. One hand curls in the sheets, white-knuckled.

Dean looks rapidly between the two. Realisation dawns with creeping dread, skin paling and chest heaving like a marathon runner. "No," he says. "No, no, nope. You're not saying there was a meteor strike nine months before January, 1979. You're not telling me that right now, dammit- I- you seriously better not be fucking telling me- after everything-" He chokes, struggles for air. 

"Jesus, Dean, breathe," Sam consoles, arms coming to wrap around Dean's shoulders, but he's thrown off as Dean scrambles out of the bed and onto the ground, breath coming in ever-quickening pants.

" _No!_ " he yells. His voice is hoarse, raw and trembling. "No, you're not saying I'm one of you! One of _them!_ "

"Dean," Castiel pleads. He kneels at Dean's side. "You Fell. You weren't one of them. Obedient angels don't think for themselves. Obedient angels don't Fall."

He looks up, vicious. "Anna Fell, and she still tried to kill us!"

"To stop the Apocalypse!"

"That Heaven wants!" Dean shouts. 

Castiel grabs his shoulders, hard enough to bruise. He has the Grace to heal it. Soon, so will Dean. "We don't want what Heaven wants, Dean. That's the problem."

"I know you don't like me much, Dean-o," Gabriel interrupts. Even his tone has taken on an edge that sounds just a hairsbreadth away from begging. "But you like Cassie, don't you? And he's an angel."

"Yeah, except he's _not like_ _any other damn angel!_ " Dean spits.

Castiel blinks. This is true, of course. He's an outlier, even among outliers. Not the first angel to rebel, but certainly the first to rebel and experience resurrection despite it. And doubtlessly, he isn't anything like the other angels on the side of free will, either. Anael, Gabriel, Balthazar, they're all familiar with humanity, its culture, its mannerisms. Castiel is constantly out of his depth. He is awkward where they are charming, noticeably alien where they are perfectly camouflaged, confused where they are knowledgeable. He misses references that they would return with their own. He trips over social nuances that they grasp without second thought. Of all the angels in his Garrison, he was the one to have the least experience with mankind, and it shows. 

It seems, in spite of how it may frustrate him at times, Dean finds Castiel's particular innate lack of humanity somewhat more amusing than terrifying. When other angels fail to blend in, Dean is suspicious and disturbed. But when Castiel does the same, for some reason, he always manages to regain Dean's trust. 

Why?

"Dean, you are still yourself." Castiel blankets Dean with his wings, even though they'll go unnoticed. "Even with your Grace, you will still be yourself. Just as Anna was."

"My Grace?" Dean repeats. He sounds out the words incredulously. "My _Grace?"_ He leans down and retches onto the floor. Castiel wipes the mess away with his Grace, then presses two careful fingers to Dean's forehead and cleans the vomit pooling at the corners of his mouth and dripping down his chin.

"Dean," Sam says, pulling Dean up and into his embrace. Dean rests his face in the crook of Sam's neck. It's Sam's turn to stand tall and soothe away Dean's tears now, the mirror image of their childhood roles. "I'm not really all that human either. Hell, I've got demon in me. But you don't hate me, do you?"

Dean slumps, shakes his head into Sam's collarbone. "You're different, Sammy."

"Oh, yeah? How?"

"You're a real person, Sam!" His hands tear through his hair, his nervous habit. "Your parents are actually your parents!" His breath hitches on a sob. "Oh God, Mom and Dad. I'm not their real son. Fuck, Sam, I'm not even your real br-"

"Don't you fucking dare finish that sentence, Dean," Sam hisses, goes dangerously quiet. The bedframe rumbles and creaks, sends a pillow to the floor. Dean grips Sam's biceps harder. The rumbling settles, and Sam's voice is softer, warmer, when he speaks. "Are you really going to tell me that right now?"

"No, no," Dean moans. "I'm sorry, Sammy. Of course you're my brother. You'll always be my brother."

"We'll get through this," Sam says. "We always do."

Dean reins in his breaths, tries to stop shaking apart in his brother's arms. After a few minutes, he looks up, rests his forehead against Sam's, nods. Then, he turns to Gabriel. "Sam was just the beginning, huh? You want us powered up enough to fight this war and win, that it? Sure, alright, I can work with that." He swallows, steels his jaw. "You want it, you got it. What do I have to do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold! What you've all been waiting for! Well, part of it. I'm a little nervous about how that last scene turned out. Hopefully you enjoy.


	10. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly lighter chapter, but it’s going to get quite dark again very, very soon. *tries not to be too foreboding*

Dean refuses to tell Bobby, begs to keep him in the dark a while longer, so they explain away their sudden departure with vague mentions of an artefact in Lawrence. Getting behind the wheel seems to have given Dean more room to breathe, because the life is slowly filtering back into his eyes. 

He doesn't say anything for the first twenty minutes of the drive, just periodically sips his coffee, eyes firmly on the road. There's no familiar background noise of classic rock to comfort Sam, who keeps sneaking him nervous glances every so often. 

Castiel isn't a master of social science, but even he can recognise a painfully awkward, tense situation when he's stuck directly in the middle of one. 

Just when he thinks the whole journey may end up being this painful, Dean heaves a sigh, and says, "You're an asshole, Gabriel. You know that?"

Gabriel pauses chewing a piece of salt-water taffy. He nods. "Yeah, figure I deserve that one."

"And you, Cas, you knew this whole time?"

"Ah," Gabriel interrupts. "That one's on me, too. Swore him to secrecy. It was very dramatic."

Dean takes one hand off the wheel to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Gah. I can't even blame you. Fuck knows what would happen if this information got out. Heaven would go nuts."

Gabriel pops another taffy in his mouth. "Exactly," he says, voice muffled by boiled sugar, butter, and chemicals. "I didn't do this lightly."

"For once," Dean grumbles. He's quiet for a moment, takes a few more sips of his drink. "If I'm an angel, can I still be Michael's vessel?"

"Two angels can inhabit the same body," Gabriel replies. "But one has to be stronger than the other. If they're both strong, well. It'd become the next shock video to go viral, that's for sure. Two Girls, One Cup? Try Two Buff Angels, One Puny Vessel."

"Now I wanna hurl, thanks." Dean flips Gabriel off. Gabriel just grins back, knowing it'll be caught through the lens of the rearview mirror. "Wait, so you're saying I'm too strong to go full Voltron with Michael? Can't copilot without turning into a human firework?"

"Something like that, yep."

Dean opens his mouth, then shuts it with a click. He shakes his head, knuckles white on the gearshift as he catches them up to highway speeds. "You're a manipulative son of a bitch, Gabriel. You didn't hop on board Team Free Will when you thought you'd have to deal with us mere mortals the whole way through. Three juiced up Celestial beings for teammates, though? Well, that sweetens the deal a little, don't it?"

"You blame me?" Gabriel shrugs, unrepentant. "I don't wanna die, Dean. And really, what sales pitch is more convincing -- two fragile humans and their strung-out angel, or three juiced up Celestial beings? Think about it."

"Fuck you," Dean growls. "And what's four Celestial beings against the rest of Heaven and Hell, huh? So we'll die later rather than sooner. Big deal. We're outnumbered either way."

"That's where you're wrong, amigo. You've seen a glimpse of my power already, so I can't fault you there if the awe has worn off a little by now. But you haven't seen the rest. Cas, that day you met him in the barn? Had barely even a fraction of the power he'll gain now we're a team."

Castiel blinks. His Grace has certainly been restored, it's true, but he's still only a Malakh. Above a Cherub, yes, and he gained enough strength, rank, and recognition to be given Thursday to patron, but certainly nothing particularly noteworthy in the face of the warriors of the upper tiers. "What power?" he asks. 

"You've been in a Garrison, Cas, but have you ever been in a Flock? A real one."

"I- no," Castiel admits. A Flock? Him? A throwaway pawn? Such a thought had never even crossed his mind in passing, let alone stuck around for serious contemplation.

"A 'Flock?'" Dean parrots mockingly. "You guys all sit together and preen your feathers, take a few dust baths, maybe sit in some fountains?"

"No," Castiel says. "A Flock is the most intimate family unit within the Host. The Archangels are their own Flock, for example."

"Well, we were," Gabriel cuts in, bitter and resigned. "Let's be honest here, my Flock fell apart when Lucifer was locked in the Cage."

"Oh," Sam says, tone knowing. "So you've been looking for a new one, all this time. And you've been hoping it could be us, huh?"

Bizarrely, Gabriel flushes. He tucks a fox's snout behind one arm, claws on another reaching up to scratch anxiously at one ear. His eyes turn into embarrassed little half moons from heads to toes. "Wow, don't out me as a desperate househusband or anything, Sam."

Dean chokes on his coffee. "You chose this nest to get cozy and roost in? Really?"

"You three intrigue me. And amuse me. And even inspire me, every now and then. You've got the balls to stand up for what you believe in. I like that. I like _you_. And I don't like very many angels anymore."

"It's that rustic Winchester charm," Dean snipes, though he sounds more pleased than sarcastic. "We're pretty irresistible, I know."

"So," Sam says, trying politely to steer the conversation onto less embarrassing topics. "What does being in a Flock have to do with making Cas more powerful?"

Gabriel breathes a small sigh of relief. "Like I said, angelic power is mostly self-actualising," he explains. "We're designed to draw our strength from our faith. Contrary to popular belief, it doesn't matter what that faith is in. And faith in a family you chose for yourself is some of the purest you can get. It's raw, undiluted power."

Sam nods, bites thoughtfully at his lip. "So Cas will get stronger because he's around other angels he trusts again?"

"Bingo. And so will the rest of us."

"And we're powerful, then? Me and Dean?"

"Far more than you know," Gabriel says, a little cryptically. In Castiel’s experience, Winchesters and deliberate vagueness don’t blend well. "All three of you have the potential to match my strength. All for different reasons, but the end result is still the same, and that only leaves a few people we need to worry about fighting. Are you starting to see the method to my madness now?"

"Yeah." Dean huffs, bemused. "As much as 'the power of our angelic love will save the day' sounds like the worst kind of chick flick plot, it's not a total crapshoot."

"I'm sorry you poor bozos have been dragged into this, but I hope you feel like you've got a better chance at being the winning team now, at least."

"I still have questions," Dean says, suspiciously. Fortunately, his anger seems to have subsided for the moment. "A whole lotta them."

"Well, we've got five and a half hours to Lawrence," Gabriel says. "My brain's open for the picking, so, y'know, get picking."

Dean takes a deep breath. "After I get another coffee."

* * *

Dean pulls into the nearest Starbucks, in some tiny town which really only boasts ease of access to travelers and not much else, and gets out into the cold morning air. It leaves the Impala in awkward silence. 

"So," Sam says, after a minute. "About that weather, huh?"

"Can't help but notice you're not freaking out all that much, Sammy." Gabriel leans in, eyes narrowed. A flutter of wings, and he's in the driver's seat, leant back with his legs crossed. "What gives?"

"I've had to come to terms with my own freakish superpowers for years now. Dean's never used his to unleash the literal, actual Devil, so he's a walk in the park in comparison."

Gabriel hums. "That why you haven't been freaking out too much about adding a little angel to that soul smoothie of yours? Well, besides the zombie hunting."

"Yeah." Sam looks out the window, away from Gabriel's piercing stare and out into the bland day-to-day lives of early-morning Starbucks customers. "I haven't really felt human for a while now. This is just kinda the nail on the proverbial coffin."

"There's worse things than not being human, Sam."

"I know, I've made my peace with it, for the most part. Still got a little more adjusting to do, but I'm managing alright." Sam shrugs. "Honestly, it's Dean who needs to hear this, not me."

"That's a can of worms that doesn't want to be opened," Gabriel says. "Daddy really did a number on him, didn't he?"

"Yeah." Sam chuckles, dark and angry. "Mom had been dead for less than a day before Dad was drilling in Dean's new meaning in life. Save people, hunt things. Don't trust the things you hunt, and definitely don't become one."

"He trusts us," Castiel says. "How are we any different?"

"Because you've proven you're on humanity's side." Sam sighs. "He doesn't know how to prove the same thing applies to him. He knows that you don't have to be human to fight on their side, or to think, feel, and act like one. But only on an intellectual level, I guess. He's having trouble applying that to himself."

"You seem to know your brother as well as you know yourself, Sam," Castiel observes. 

"We both do. I'm just more emotionally in-touch about it." Sam snorts. "Dean treats emotions like they'll give him leprosy sometimes. Most of the time."

"Don't we know it," Gabriel grouses.

Before anyone can lament any further, Dean comes strolling out of the store, turning his jacket up against the wind. He's balancing a tray of drinks in one hand and fumbling for the keys with the other. He shoots a mutinous look at Gabriel, who flits quickly back into his designated seat.

Once Dean gets the door unlocked, he shoves the drinks in Sam's face. "Hold these while I get in, will ya?" He doesn't wait for a response before clambering in. "Cold out there, man."

Sam eyes the tray. "These all for you, or were you feeling generous?" 

"Can't maintain my svelte figure if I drink five cups of cream a day. I was feeling generous." He stretches, joints popping. "White chocolate peppermint mocha for you, Sam. That's your usual, right?"

"Awww, so you do care," Sam teases. "Thanks."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I got a Caramel Frappuccino for Gabriel, because it's disgustingly sugary enough for his sweet tooth. That's the one on the right with the two gallons of whipped cream on top, Sammy. I got Cas something reasonable to try." He points to a cup that smells lightly spiced. "Chestnut praline latte, and I asked them to add some cinnamon. Pretentious as it sounds, Sam made me try it once, and it's actually pretty damn good."

"Thank you," Castiel says. "I've never frequented this establishment before, but I hear it's very popular."

"Figured I'd get you one of their less ridiculous drinks before Gabriel tries to corrupt you." Dean turns the keys in the ignition. Sam peers at the labels, trying to pass out each cup before the Impala lurches into gear. "Mine's the top right, Sam. Espresso, double shot. I'm gonna need it."

"Gimme, gimme," Gabriel says eagerly. "Frappuccinos are the best thing in all of Dad's creation. Definitely in my top ten reasons I wanna keep humanity around. That and cocaine. And lawn flamingos."

"Tacky decorations and drug running in my baby? Might as well get a bumper sticker that says 'this car belongs to a washed up Floridian pensioner not ready to stop partying yet' to complete the look," Dean says. "Not a chance in hell. This is all we got to celebrate having a fighting chance at saving the world, so drink up."

"Party pooper." Gabriel blows a raspberry at Dean and eagerly takes his drink from Sam's outstretched hand. "Thanks muchly. You're my favourite Winchester."

"Uh, I also veto the coke and lawn flamingos, actually."

Gabriel pouts. "You wound me, Sam."

* * *

Dean waits until the coffee has settled pleasantly in everyone's stomachs before asking, "How do you know I'm really an angel? I mean, are you sure you didn't get any wires crossed? I'm hardly a saint."

Gabriel tilts his head. "You're more a hands-on learner, aren't you? A seeing is believing kind of guy?" Dean gives a puzzled nod. "Lemme try something real quick, see if I can show you. Just say when."

Dean's hands flex against the steering wheel. He pulls over, turns off the engine, then takes a deep breath, just listening to the creak of the Impala's frame as it settles. After a moment of sitting completely still, he says, "Okay, when."

Gabriel reaches out a tendril of Grace, one only he and Castiel can see. Gently, he curls it around Dean's soul. "You should feel a little warmer."

"Yeah," Dean confirms. "Weird. That it?"

"No. That's just me giving your soul a hug." Dean's nose wrinkles. "Don't be like that," Gabriel whines. "Now I'm gonna poke something. Tell me if you feel it."

Dean twists around in the seat. "Woah, don't cop a feel of my soul, dude. That crosses some serious boundaries."

"Relax, I'm not groping it. I'm giving it a nudge, that's all." Carefully, the tendril winds its way deeper into Dean's soul. Castiel watches, mesmerised, as it comes to a stop close to the centre of his chest. At first, it seems like any other part of a human soul, brilliant light in ever-shifting iridescent hues. Then, he sees it. A little shimmering patch, hazy like an oasis. Gabriel's Grace gives it a soft nuzzle.

It flares to life, and with it comes a radiant warmth. Something about it seems familiar.

Dean nearly jumps out of the seat. "What the fuck is that?" he gasps. "It feels like I'm buzzing, like some kinda static shock."

"Woah, that's cool," Sam breathes. He peers closer, into Dean's personal space, which doesn't seem to bother him. Castiel still isn't entirely sure how personal space is defined as a concept. "Dean, look in the mirror."

Dean flicks down the sun visor and slides the cover off the mirror there. Castiel meets his eyes in the reflection. They're glowing. "Oh, holy shit," Dean says. "Holy shit, okay, I- yeah. I'm believing."

"Great!" Gabriel exclaims. His Grace returns with a snap, and the luminescence in Dean's eyes fades along with it. "Right-o, that covers that. Would hate to be taken for a liar."

Dean blinks, turns the Impala back on, releases the handbrake. His mind seems to rumble back to life with the engine. "It just doesn't make sense," he protests. "I've committed all seven sins, been to Hell and back. And believe me, if I was anything but a normal kid, Dad would've had me exorcised a hundred times over. No random freakouts, no memories of past lives. And I sure as Hell ain't never heard any voices in my head that weren't my own."

"Anna's case was different," Gabriel says.

"Different how?"

"She couldn't repress her powers fully. The weaker the angel, the less they can keep locked down. It's a little counterintuitive, I know."

"But Anna isn't weak," Dean says, brow furrowing. "I mean, she was Cas's boss. That means she's pretty high up the corporate ladder, right?"

"Mhm," Gabriel replies. "Exactly."

"Oh," Dean says, a little stupidly. Then, "Jesus Christ, what am I? Some kinda angel tactical nuke?" He looks sick.

Gabriel snorts. "You and Sam both."

"Not sure how I feel about you two being the _Enola Gay_ to our _Little Boy_ and _Fat Man._ " Dean shudders. "And not just because of the forties' questionable choice in names."

A reference to world history is one Castiel can finally understand. It reminds him that humanity is no stranger to gruesome wars, that it isn't just Heaven's burden to bear -- all of God's creations seem to enjoy tearing at each other's throats. Was that a flaw in the code, or a deliberate feature?

"Yeah, no. Mass civilian casualties aren't really my thing," Gabriel says. "You'll be able to keep your powers totally contained. It's the other sides that don't care about collateral, and we can't stop all of Heaven and Hell at once. There's only so much we can do to keep the Apocalypse out of populated areas. And even then, vessels will always get in the way."

Dean's eyes go pinched around the edges, crow's feet from years of wearing his emotions more openly than he thinks. "Yeah," he says. "I know. But- how do you know for sure I'll be able to keep my angel mojo under control?"

Gabriel's expression turns sheepish. "I don't know for sure. You can't really guarantee anything in this damn mess. But it's muscle memory, anyway. You'll be a little rusty at first, sure, but it'll come back to you pretty quick."

Dean frowns. "That's not really the vote of confidence I was hoping for."

"Dean," Sam says. He leans against Dean's side and rests a hand on his back, a reassuring weight directly in between his shoulderblades. "It's only me who has the bad track record when it comes to superhuman powers. I'm sure you'll be a natural at it."

Dean shakes his head. "It's not your fault that stuff is addictive," he says firmly. "Or that Ruby was a lying bitch. You didn't know what would happen."

"I should've guessed I was getting played."

"We all were, Sam. That was kinda the point." Dean sighs. "Lesson learned. We've got to stick together and watch each other's backs, stop it from happening again."

The car is silent after that.

* * *

They pull into Lawrence, not a word spoken between them. Castiel knows from cradling Dean's soul and shifting through his memories that the last time they were here was when Sam was having visions of the future. The nostalgia of being back always ends up tinged with a lingering horror. Ever since their mother's death, Lawrence only seems to bring misfortune. 

Both brothers try and fail not to stare out the window too openly. It's not too different from any other city in the American midwest, and from anyone else's car it would be completely unremarkable. Red brick houses, joggers and dogwalkers on the sidewalks, afternoon traffic, office workers taking their lunch breaks in streetside cafés. Sam and Dean eye each one with a complicated mix of pain and longing. 

"I don't even know what I'm looking for," Dean admits. "There are a lot of parks in Lawrence. It's not exactly a small town."

"Anna's Grace caused an explosion of growth in the area," Sam says. "We're probably looking at a nature preserve, not your local playground."

"Plus, you'll know it when you see it," Gabriel chimes in. "We don't need to check everything green and growing in Lawrence."

"That's true." Sam nods. "Any place ever stand out to you as special?"

"Dude, I was four."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Four-year-olds love the park. I'm sure you can remember going to one and feeling, I dunno, at peace there, or something."

Dean scoffs. "What am I, some kinda treehugger? I was a toddler, not a hippie."

"Just shut up and think, Dean."

Dean grumbles to himself, but still chews his lip in thought. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the rhythmic _click-click_ of the Impala's turn signal. After a second, he offers, "Well, there was this one place I liked. Mom made sure to stay in shape -- which was probably a hunting thing, now that I think about it -- and go on hikes whenever she had the time, even when she was pregnant with you, Sammy." Dean smiles, fond. "Usually I was bored out of my tiny little kid mind, spent most of the time in the stroller, playing with my Hot Wheels. When you were born I changed things up a little, ditched the toy cars and spent the whole hike with my fingers in your mouth, trying to get you to bite me with no teeth."

"Oh, so you've been annoying the shit out of me since day one," Sam says. "That's nice to know. I hope I bit you."

"Yeah, it was all fun and games until you started teething. Gums don't hurt, but your little fuckin' baby fangs did."

Sam shrugs, face smug. "Serves you right."

"Anyway," Dean continues, annoyed, "I was usually pretty 'meh' about the whole thing. With this one park, though, I dunno why, but I never felt bored there. I either fell asleep or just sat back and relaxed."

"It's a start," Gabriel says. "You remember what it's called?"

"Yeah. Clinton State Park. I remember seeing the sign every time we came in." Dean throws Sam his phone. "Pull up the map, couldya, Sammy? No clue where I'm headed. Lot's changed since 1983."


	11. An Oak Tree in Lawrence, Kansas

The parking lots are filled with cars, families on pleasant day trips packing their picnic baskets, oblivious to the dark path Earth is hurtling down. 

Castiel can't feel anything yet, but they're only at the park's entrance. And in the end, it's Dean's senses that matter here. 

"Should we just, uh, pick a trail and go, or something?" Sam asks. 

"I guess." Dean shrugs. He squints at the visitor's map, then points to one of the pathways, fences on either side overgrown with vines and moss. "That one leads straight into the middle of the park and connects with a bunch of other trails. That should be good enough to start with, right?"

Sam shrugs back at him. "Go for it."

The walk is fairly silent. Perhaps Dean had gotten all his talking out in the car. There's nothing except the crunch of their boots against the twigs on the ground and the chirps of robins and chickadees. 

The forest is peaceful, but no more peaceful than any other forest Castiel's set foot in, in his billions of years of life. It smells earthy and fresh, and he catches sight of the occasional deer grazing a safe distance away from the trail. Beautiful, but nothing about it screams supernatural power. He thinks that may be exactly the point. 

Sam and Dean hike onwards with the grace and ease borne from spending thousands of hours doing this very same thing. How many of the forests in America have they searched? They would've lost count when Sam was still in puberty. 

They barely break a sweat. Soon, neither of them will have any need to sweat at all, much like Castiel and Gabriel themselves. Humanity is intrinsic to Dean's sense of self, and contrary to his own beliefs, it's fairly intrinsic to Sam's, as well. Castiel fears losing these mundane, often annoying aspects of human life may send the two into a spiraling breakdown. Humans tend to fret over the smallest details, he's noticed. No matter how unimportant in the grand scheme of things. 

Castiel's duty as the Winchesters' guardian has extended far beyond the scope of what he'd initially imagined, and now it seems it may have to expand even further. The Winchesters have tried to teach him to be human, and now he gets to return the favour and teach them how to be Celestial. He doesn't know where to start, or how much of the job will fall solely on his shoulders, how helpful Gabriel will ultimately prove to be. Dean will be at war with his past memories -- his Grace's instinctive respect for the higher tiers pit against his human brain's instinctive distrust of the Trickster that tormented him. 

But they have no other choice. The brothers' combined power is all he and Gabriel have to rely on. Lucifer's hold over Earth grows stronger by the day, and Heaven's self-righteous, frenzied need to destroy him only burns brighter in turn. The four of them are truly stuck between the two most powerful armies in creation, every inch of breathing room paid for in blood. 

"Don't think so hard, brother," Gabriel says in a whisper. "If we get stuck worrying about our chances, we won't have time to take any. And then we'll be even more royally effed up the A."

"Your, ah, 'bedside manner' is impressive," Castiel replies loudly. "I find myself very reassured."

"Hoo boy, Gabriel," Dean says. "Need some cream for that burn, buddy?"

Gabriel flips him off with a polite smile. "Shove off, bowlegs."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "At least my legs are long enough to notice, pipsqueak."

"My real legs are longer than five of you put together," Gabriel snaps back. 

"And what a shame you can't actually use them without burning everyone's eyes out."

Gabriel sticks his tongue out, in both his vessel and his true form. "Not for long. Soon you'll be able to see me rock a pair of daisy dukes for real, Dean-o, and you won't be so smug then."

Dean’s eye twitches at the reminder of his true nature. "I'll be too busy puking my guts out. Can angels puke?" He shrugs and moves on, leaving the question rhetorical. "Whatever, guess I'll be the first if they don't. My eyes, man. Why don’t you just stick to the white robes? If you guys even wear clothes."

"For protection, when necessary," Castiel answers, before Gabriel escalates the situation any further in sheer offense. "Mostly armour, and yes, occasionally robes. I don't know what daisy dukes are, but I'm guessing they aren't either."

Dean considers this. "Bet it's hard making armour that fits your wings. And all your arms. And heads." He grins, cheeky. "I mean, at least you don't have to worry about codpieces, right?"

"Ha. Ha." Gabriel scowls. "See if I make you any now."

"Go ahead, I'll just make it myself. _And_ I'll make it look awesome, deck it out a little. Cas, how do you write 'Gabriel sucks' in Enochian?"

"You'd think both of you were thirteen years old, not thirteen billion," Sam grouses. 

"Don't worry, we'll put Hello Kitty on yours, Sammy."

"Dean, I swear to God, I will deep fry you if you try."

Castiel doesn't know if he should be concerned that he's completely acclimatised to the childish bickering at this point. Just another unexpected thing that's become his reality as of late.

At least an adaptable warrior is one who survives.

* * *

The mood turns quickly somber as they trek further into the forest. Here, under the shade of the trees, it's chilly. Angels don't need warmth, but the Winchesters are still mostly human, if not for long. Dean pulls his jacket closer to his body, shoulders hunched and hands slipped into his pockets. The sun only shines through in speckles that dot the forest floor. 

Still, it's calm and soothing. Castiel has always felt a sense of tranquility when basking in the glory of his Father's creation, and here is no different. For some reason, Dean seems to find the open appreciation of nature embarrassing, but Castiel has no such qualms. Life here in the forest lives in a delicate harmony, cycles that have been playing out since God mixed together the proteins that would make the first living organism. This is a sacred balance to Castiel, as it should be to all of the guardians his Father appointed to watch over Earth. He doesn't know why so few remain in agreement with the principle. 

Castiel is watching the songbirds flit through the trees when Dean comes to a halt. Sam immediately halts with him, decades of training keeping them in perfect sync. "Hold up," Dean says. "Okay, that's weird."

Sam looks around. There's nothing except the trees to greet them. "What's up?"

"It feels kinda like someone's tugging my arm."

"Oh, thank God," Gabriel says. "I was starting to get bored."

"I take it that means we're on the right track?"

"Your own personal Grace compass, baby." Gabriel makes a sweeping gesture. "Follow the yellow brick road."

Dean holds his arm out in front of him, staring at it like it's alien, hops the fence, and takes them off the trail. 

The woods aren't too thick to pass through, but the branches swoop low and over Sam's hair. Twigs nestle in the tangled mess, and Sam's soul lights up in irritation. Dean doesn't have much better luck, but he's too engrossed in following the pull of his Grace to notice. 

Leaves brush against their faces, leaving their cheeks wet with dew and streaks of dirt. Soon, they're shaking mud off their boots and detritus from their jackets. Sam takes one look at Castiel and Gabriel, pristine and unruffled, and sighs. "That really doesn't seem fair."

"Don't get your panties too twisted, Sam. You two won't have to deal with the troubles of being gross, sweaty apes much longer," Gabriel says. Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean pales. Gabriel's sharp enough to notice it. "You have to be ready for it, Dean-o. If you're not ready for it, you'll go full breakdown when reality slaps you in the face in, uh, I dunno, like, half a mile."

"Shut up, I know," Dean growls. "I know, dammit." He says nothing more and walks on. Gabriel wisely doesn't bring it up again.

A few hundred metres later, Castiel begins to feel it. A glow. Like turning your face up to the sun on a warm day and basking in the light. Like sinking into a hotspring. Like falling asleep on your wings, feathers tickling your noses. It's all-encompassing, but not stifling. 

Dean's Grace. It's lovely. 

"I can feel it," Castiel says. 

"Yeah." Dean lowers his arm. "It's close."

As they continue, the branches begin dipping, bowed, into an extended archway. Berries dangle from each, vivid, inviting patches of colour in amongst the brown and green. They line the floor like a carpet, crunching gently against their boots and filling the air with a sweet, fruity fragrance. The design feels deliberate, like somehow the forest is curling in to welcome them.

The archway opens up into a grove, where Dean stops dead in his tracks, mouth parted. The grass is filled with a wild, lush assortment of flowers, some that aren't even native to the Americas, let alone Kansas. The floral scent joins with the crushed berries on their boots to make a soft perfume. Birds and insects flutter by on the light breeze, rabbits dart between plant fronds, frogs croak from the reeds that skirt a fish-filled pond. In the centre of the grove is an old, towering oak tree, nests of birds and squirrels dotting each branch. A doe sleeps on its roots.

Every square inch of this place seems to teem with pure, unrestrained life. 

It's breathtaking. Resplendent. 

There's something intense and familiar about it, too. Castiel can't quite place the feeling, any real recognition fleeting, stuck on the tip of his tongue, so elusive it's beginning to frustrate him. Where has he felt this before? Why is the touch of Dean's Grace pulling at a thread of old, half-forgotten knowledge in the recesses of Castiel's mind?

"Patience," Gabriel tells him. Then, "Remember how I told you there was something else about my hypothesis I kept under wraps? Something I wasn't 100% sure on?"

"I remember."

"Well, I was right. I mean, hey, I usually am." Gabriel flashes him a smile, but it's a little strained, a little weak. Castiel is hit with an abrupt sense of dread. Like the tide before a tsunami, all the warmth and peace he'd felt just seconds before recedes. "You'll see in a sec. Just… please try to understand why I didn't tell you."

The doe wakes up, takes one look at their little group, and flees. 

"This is it," Dean says. "It's here." He moves forward, as if in a trance. 

"Dean-" Castiel's cry is choked off. What's the human expression? To be caught between a rock and a hard place? The danger of whatever Gabriel has hidden from him versus the danger of leaving Dean's Grace unclaimed. 

"Whatever happens," Gabriel says, "this ends here. That's what I wanted."

Castiel shoots him a horrified look. "What have you done? What's going to happen to Dean?" He unsheathes his blade, bares claws and fangs, and growls, wings flaring high. Driven by pure instinct. "Brother, I love you, but if you hurt Dean, I will tear out all six of your wings."

"Dean'll be fine, his Grace won't hurt him," Gabriel promises. "Put away your sword, Castiel. We don't want to show ourselves up in front of Dean's rebirth like drunk uncles at a wedding, do we?"

Castiel wants to be sick, but only his vessel can vomit, and he has it under complete control. His true form has no stomach. Angels have no need for food. 

Dean stands at the base of the tree, staring at it in reverence. He's blind to the turmoil behind him, and so is Sam, who's turned towards him, a comet caught in a gravitational pull. He reaches out a trembling hand. Castiel opens his mouths to scream, but finds he has nothing to say. Dean lays his palm on the tree's trunk. 

The world explodes into light. Castiel has half a mind to yell for everyone to close their eyes, then realises nobody present has any need to do so. For better or for worse, no member of Team Free Will, champion of humanity, is actually human any longer. 

Dean's Grace burns like a beacon, molten and coating everything in sight, setting the air on fire and filling it with the scent of ozone, something electric and raw. Then it fades into a dull glow, like the last embers in a campfire. Castiel can make out Dean, then, still standing at the foot of the tree. He blinks past the Dean he knows, Dean's _vessel_ , and sees him for what he truly is. 

Decorous, sculpted and ornate down to the last atom. Tall, so tall, taller than Castiel or Gabriel, legs long and curved at the hock of his ankles like an animal's. Many arms held out wide, as if in supplication, razor sharp claws glinting in the sun. Heads on elegant necks on graceful shoulders, faces so like man and like beast and yet not like either all the same. Always something off, like God hadn't yet made up his mind on the final design. The faces of man missing all except mouths, some all except assorted pairs of eyes, some any features at all, smooth and blank like masks. The faces of beasts with grins of sharp fangs, heedless to belonging to predator or prey. There are eyes where eyes should not be, in all different types, slit like a reptile or diamond like a cat, some all black, save for a glowing iris, some all light, burning from within. All the same gorgeous, verdant green as Dean's vessel's. Funny how those eyes had always seemed just a touch shy of unreal. 

He spots the head of a wolf, of a stag, of a lion, of an eagle. Brave animals. Noble animals. Proud animals. Just as Dean himself. 

And his wings. Gleaming and metallic, stunning golds and bronzes and coppers. Some tipped with green, like vines curling around veins of ore. Each of them spread in an astonishing wingspan, basking in the sun. 

Each of the six.

_Six._

An Archangel. _The_ Archangel. 

God's most treasured artwork, exquisite in His craft, His masterpiece and crowning jewel. Castiel knew this Grace because it was unforgettable. Its unwavering gaze was impossible to ignore, had watched attentively, God's faithful overseer. On the few times Castiel had been honoured by its presence, he had felt so thoroughly, incredibly _seen._ A cold, piercing thing. After all, an overseer must be objective. An overseer must not show emotion, or favour. An overseer cannot show flaw or weakness. Especially not one of this caliber. 

_Michael. He who always strives for perfection. God's first son._

Castiel drops to his knees. 

_How?_

He turns to his brother, everything within him churning. Gabriel's faces are resolute, wings steeled and determined. That wild, insane, calculating _piece of shit_. Ever the agent of chaos. Is this a betrayal? Is Gabriel on Heaven's side? Or is he stupid enough, driven mad enough, suddenly reckless enough to think he can fight Michael and _win?_

"Sam!" Castiel cries. " _Samuel! Get down!_ "

Sam blinks, then ducks, instinctive. "Why?" he asks, knelt in the grass. "What's wrong?"

_Michael will think of you as an abomination, Sam. As I once did. And I, a traitor. As I am._

But he can't say it. He can't do that to Sam, etch that pain into his soul right before their inevitable death. He'll fight to his last breath to keep Sam safe, but he expects he'll only be able to take one.

"Argh," groans Dean -- groans Michael. His eyes clench shut. 

"Brother?" Gabriel hedges. 

"Fuck, I feel really dizzy." Voice cracking and gruff. "Sun's too bright. I can't open my eyes yet, so you've gotta tell me if it worked. 'Cause, honestly, I don't think it did. Aside from the spins, I don't feel any different. Kinda like I'm drunk _and_ hungover, but that's pretty much it."

"Hah," Gabriel says -- or rather, laughs. Hysterical peals of it. "Hahahah!" Snorts and undignified wheezes. "Oh, oh, it figures. It just fucking figures. Ah!" He wipes tears from his eyes. "See, Cas? Everything's fine. Knew it would be." But his voice trembles a little with insincerity on those last words. 

Castiel steps forward, arches his wings so his feathers are sharp like blades, and beats Gabriel with them in three heavy, measured blows. One for each of them present. He stumbles back. "How _dare_ you!" Castiel snarls. "You _son of a bitch!_ "

"I deserve that," Gabriel says, blood dribbling from the wounds on his chest. His vessel bleeds too, spits it onto the forest floor. "But look, look, Cassie. It's fine, everything's fine. I- he's been gone a while. I did some research. Friends in high places and all. So I thought, huh. Wouldn't it just be our fucking luck if he was here? Playing house with the new golden children?" Gabriel laughs, bitter. "Guess he took a page outta my book, thought it was finally time to see what all the fuss was about."

"Hey, hey, hold on a sec," comes Dean's voice. His true voice. Like all angels, it's overlaid with a thousand others, thousands that combine into an overall tone. Rough from years of battle and still like silk. Much like his vessel's. God, Castiel has been so blind. The parallels were stretching his jaws to crawl down his throats, and he'd opened wide without a second thought. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Well, look at you, Dean-o," Gabriel says, soft. "Gotta hand it to ya, you always were a stubborn bastard. Looks like your personality for thirty years is more important to you than your personality for thirteen billion." He smiles, a little sad. "Part of me misses you, and part of me is glad you won't let this side of yourself go down without a fight. I've grown real fond of it, y'know."

"Gabriel, buddy." His eyes are still closed, but his brows furrow. "I have no Goddamn idea what you're talking about. You wanna share with the class?"

"It did work. Your Grace has been perfectly restored. The reason you don't feel any different is because you're suppressing your memories, Dean."

"Why would I do that?"

"Too painful. Too filled with regrets."

"Yeah, what else is new?" Dean scoffs. "You both seem to recognise me. What exactly am I not remembering here?"

"Being my big bro," Gabriel says. "Welcome home, Mikey."

Sam's eyes widen. He clambers to his feet, wobbles, and falls back, panting, on one knee.

Dean's wings puff up in terror. An ingrained evolutionary response that required no evolution. Angels are the templates for the behaviour of many terrestrial lifeforms. "Wait, what? No, I- He's supposed to be riding my ass. Right? What do you mean I- I _am_ him?"

"All of Heaven's a dirty, filthy liar, liar, pants on fire," Gabriel quips, vicious. "But hey, like you said, what else is new? I knew I smelled bullshit. Just didn't know how much bullshit I smelled."

Dean's legs can no longer hold his weight, and he props himself up against the tree, back pressed firmly against its bark. He looks lost and confused, almost childlike in his vulnerability. It's a fundamentally disconcerting expression to see on an Archangel.

Castiel fights back a scream. "Why would they start the Apocalypse if Michael was no longer in Heaven? They could have... they could have risked letting Lucifer win."

"It was the one call they knew Michael couldn't ignore," Gabriel says. "And in all their hubris, all their senseless adoration, they never even imagined that Michael wasn't answering because he was too human to hear it. No, their beloved messiah couldn't Fall." He shrugs. "Hell, even I don't know why, or how, he did it. I'd ask him myself, but, well. He's too busy standing around looking like a moron right now."

"Hey!" Reflexive offence, reflexive comeback. But his voice still shakes. "Blow me, you dick."

An absurd, wounded little part of Castiel almost wants to cry. He knew Heaven had reached new lows, knew he had rebelled for a good reason, but he'd… God, he'd been a fool. An idealist. He never could've imagined they'd stoop _this_ low, reach _this_ level of disgrace. He'd somehow, some way, _still_ thought better of them, even after everything that he'd seen. 

How naïve of him. How crushingly, pityingly naïve. 

"Cas?" Dean says. "Cas, you okay there, man?" He reaches out, stumbles forward.

"Dean," Gabriel says. "If you open your eyes, you'll see our true forms. Are you ready for that?"

"You think I give a flying fuck about that right now?" Dean snaps, teeth gnashing. "Can't you sense Cas? It feels like he's dying!"

"Just a little existential crisis," Gabriel offers glibly. 

"Eat shit," Dean hisses. He opens his eyes, every single one, then staggers back and gasps. 

"Look, for what it’s worth, as little as that is, I'm sorry," Gabriel says, now everyone's eyes are trained on him. "I really am. This was the only way we had a shot at winning this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mess."

"Holy-" Slowly, Dean gives a low, panicked, hysteria-tinged chuckle. "Oh, wow. I, uh. Okay. You're sorry. You're sorry, huh? I don't know what the hell to say to that right now. I'm scared, I'm fucking pissed. This is a lot to take in at once, and you aren't fucking helping." He takes a deep breath with lungs that are newly-vestigial. "God, you have _so many_ eyes. I mean, you guys are- um. Shit. You’re something else. Guess I don't wanna look in a mirror yet."

Gabriel just grins under the scrutiny. “All the better to see you with, my dear.”

Castiel feels abruptly self-conscious. Pinned down by an Archangel's stare. Even without eons of memories behind that gaze, Castiel still feels unspeakably seen. "Hello, Dean."

"You're amazing." Dean's human body covers its mouth with its hands, goes a little pink. "Okay, maybe I am drunk. I just- wow. You guys look… I can't even describe it. It's awesome."

"Thank you," Castiel says. Embarrassingly, his wings fluff up in pride. He has always been proud of keeping his form in peak condition. And now, with his Grace back to its former glory, he knows he looks befitting of a warrior once more. 

"Dude," Dean says, after a moment, a feeble attempt at a joke. "You're a cougar. Sammy! Sammy, you better get juicing, you gotta see this. Cas is a cougar."

Castiel tilts his heads, searching for the colloquialism. He wishes he had the knowledge to play along, to help Dean laugh off the terror and disbelief. 

Sam is snapped with a splutter out of being motionless and open-mouthed. "What the fuck, Dean? Last time I checked, Cas was an ancient Celestial being, not a middle-aged woman." 

"No, an actual cougar. Y'know..." Dean swipes a hand through the air and mimics a roar, which makes Gabriel start to wheeze again. "That kind of cougar."

" _That's_ what you're going with right now? You're an idiot," Sam says. He rubs a hand over his face. "Holy shit," he breathes. "I'm- I can't say I saw this coming. But I'm glad you're okay, Dean. Jesus."

"Awww, Sam, you big girl." Dean kneels at his side, pulls him into a hug. Castiel watches as Dean compartmentalises the fear and shock, the rage and disgust, tamps down on every overwhelming emotion, and prioritises the urge to comfort and protect, all in the span of seconds. Evidently, he has a practiced hand. "C'mere."

Sam buries into his side. "You scared me, man."

"It's okay. I'm okay." Dean makes a whoof of surprise as Sam hugs him tighter, practically yanks him into his lap. "Hey. Three guesses as to Gabriel's weird animal heads. If you get any right, I'll take you to a Jamba Juice and you can get a wheatgrass smoothie or whatever."

Sam lets out a snort, a little sniffley. He keeps his face in Dean's hair. "Any hints?"

"They're exactly what you'd expect."

"Real helpful, Dean. What about Cas'?"

"Fine, guess it's only fair if I give you the rest of those for free." Dean squints in Castiel's direction. He tries not to preen, fighting the juvenile wish to impress an Archangel. Stupid. He's not a fledgling anymore. "Uh, lemme see. Zebra, wolf, owl. Is that- is that an elk?"

"It is," Castiel confirms. He brushes his feathers over a velvety antler. 

"Huh," Sam says. "That's very Cas."

"Right? That's the weird part, it really _is._ Dunno why, it just is." Dean slides a hand up and down Sam's back in careful, gentle strokes. "C'mon, Sammy. Let's get outta here. You can guess Gabriel's ugly mug in the car."

Sam nods, takes a deep breath. Slowly, he releases Dean from his death grip. "Yeah," he says. "Okay."

Together, they stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, so. Um. Yeah! We got to it! Forty thousand words later and we finally got to it! The pivotal moment! I’m both proud and really nervous about this one, so I’d appreciate any and all feedback. I hope I could live up to any hype I built. Love y’all, I’m enjoying this wild ride, and I hope you are, too.


	12. Mirrors

Sam falls asleep on the way back, even with rock music blaring. Dean won’t look down at his hands, but Castiel sees them begin to shake as soon as he’s sure his brother is out cold. He grips the wheel tighter, knuckles white as bone, and tries to keep his eyes on the road and only the road. He wraps himself in his wings and doesn't even notice.

Castiel has never felt so helpless. 

He hates it. Helplessness makes people desperate. Desperation makes people careless, rash. Gabriel is living proof of that. 

Unleashing the Archangel destined to see the Apocalypse through to its bloody end on the off chance he'd changed his mind. 

Just how much has losing his Flock eroded Gabriel's sanity over the years?

"I'm perfectly sane, thanks," Gabriel snaps. 

"The hell you are," Dean replies, before Castiel himself can. "That was stupid. And reckless. And stupid. You're lucky I don't have my memories back." His voice cracks a little as he says it, and the steering wheel lets out a warning groan. Dean looks down at it in horror and releases his hold. "Fuckin' idiot," he mumbles. To himself or to Gabriel, Castiel can't tell. 

"I was saving your sorry asses," Gabriel reminds them. "You know, from the Apocalyptic war on?"

Dean's voice goes dangerously low. "The one that I'm apparently supposed to lead, you mean? I can't believe you! Well, actually, I can. Track record like yours, should've seen this coming." Gabriel winces. "And if I remember- God damn it, if I fucking remember, it'll be exactly what they want anyway! How's it any different from me just saying yes? I still lose- lose myself." Dean croaks out those last words. He blinks rapidly, breaths hitching. "No wonder you joined us, huh? You said 'play our roles.' Play our fucking roles. Right? Well, congrats, my ass is getting ridden by that _thing_. Only now I can't even get lucky enough to be a vegetable by the end of this shitshow, so that's fun. Thanks for that."

Gabriel shrinks in on himself, cringes away like he's been slapped. "That _'thing'_ is _you_. Is _us_."

"I'm not anything _like_ you!" Dean growls. "I don't get off on fucking over everyone I know!"

"I just wanted my family back!" Gabriel explodes. "I want my Flock back! Dad turned His back on me, on us. So I left. I left, okay? I skipped out on my big brother when he needed me the most, and then he returned the favour. You think I don't hate myself enough for that already?"

Sam snuffles, shifts in his seat, peaceful and blissfully unaware. Dean's eyes fix on him, then overflow with tears. "History repeats itself, huh?" He looks to the sky, then back to the road, stretching endless before him. "Is this some kinda sick joke? God got bored, so He decided to burn it all down, go out in style?"

"Hell if I know." 

Dean barks out a laugh, sharp and bitter. "Yeah, looks like that's the fuckin' problem." 

"You ever wanted your family back, Dean?" Gabriel asks. The comment buries, deep and barbed, under Dean's skin, but Gabriel's not asking it to be mean. "That sick, aching longing? Thinking, 'Yeah, sure, maybe the past wasn't as rose-tinted as I thought, but damn, it sure was a helluva lot better than this?'"

"You already know the answer to that," Dean grits out. 

"I do. I do, because it was _destiny_ , Dean. Written in the stars. Azazel got his filthy paws on your brother, and you damned yourself to a Hell Cassie here had to pull you out of, just to save him. You didn't even hesitate. Because that's what we do for our family. That's how Daddy made us." Gabriel grins, a little manic, more than a little wild. "So, yeah. I was an underhanded son of a bitch. You can sock me right in my big mouth for it, Dean-o, but don't for a fucking second act like you don't understand."

Dean presses his foot down on the gas until the Impala is roaring beneath him. "Yeah, I understand. 'Course I do, dammit. But _I_ chose to die for Sammy. _I_ chose to die for _my_ brother. _You_ chose me to die for _yours_."

"You _are_ my brother!" Gabriel yells, and it rattles the whole car. Sam shoots awake with a jolt.

It's the first time Castiel has heard Gabriel's true voice slip since joining them. 

They veer onto the shoulder and screech to a halt, rubber burning against asphalt. Dean's wings stretch out and envelop the car's aging frame like a Celestial safety net. He runs nervous hands over every part of the Impala he can reach, even hands he still doesn't quite realise he has. Castiel sends out a silent prayer of thanks that his claws can't manifest in the same plane of existence as his car's treasured paintwork. "Christ! Careful with Baby!"

"Okay," Sam says, frazzled, hair mussed and sticking out in places. "What the Hell did I miss? I swear, I pass out for five minutes and everything goes to shit."

"Just your dulcet tones, Sammy," Dean and Gabriel chorus. Then, they whip around to stare at each other, horrified.

Sam bursts out laughing. It's free and unrestrained, hard enough he has to grip his stomach and try not to double over in his seat. "Oh my God," he wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. "What is my fucking life?"

Sam's mocking snorts are apparently enough to get Dean and Gabriel to immediately relax, wings settling back into place at their backs, tension seeping out of their shoulders. Their posture goes from soldier at-attention to lazy sprawl in one smooth move, and Castiel is struck by the similarity. Not that he would point that out while they're in earshot. He doesn't have the patience. 

"Look, Dean," Gabriel says, softer this time. "We're family. All of us."

"Yeah?" Dean sighs, puts on a fake little smirk. "You proposition your family a lot?"

"Kinda unavoidable in Heaven. You know, given that we're all technically related." Gabriel shrugs. "No DNA, no kids, means no angel inbreeding. So who cares about gettin' a little familiar with the family? It's all relative with your relatives."

Dean winces. "You and Becky are two peas in a creepy, incest-obsessed pod. It's freaky."

"Oh, I like that one. She's feisty."

"Of course you do."

There's a moment where nobody says anything. Finally, Sam clears his throat. He seems to have caught onto the nature of the argument relatively quickly. "You're still you, Dean."

"Yeah, and for how long?" Dean leans forward, rests his forehead on the steering wheel, and screws his eyes shut. "How long do I got, Sammy? A year, like last time? 'Cause I'm guessing a lot less, personally."

"Anna handled it fine," Sam says. "You know, considering."

"Yeah, well, Anna wasn't a huge bag of dicks before she Fell."

"People change," Sam says. "And we don't really know anything about what Michael was like before. Last time Gabriel saw him was thousands of years ago. And Cas…?" He trails off, tilts his head towards Castiel. 

"I met him once, and saw him sometimes in passing."

"What was he like?" Dean swallows. There's sweat at his temples, dripping down, down, down, into his eyelashes. For a second, they might be mistaken for tears. "What was I like?"

"He- you- were…" Castiel searches for the words. 

"C'mon, Cas. Hit me with it."

"Overburdened," Castiel settles on. And it is true. How could it not be? Michael had every responsibility heaped onto his shoulders and more. The only role model in Heaven, as close to God as any angel could ever feasibly manage. Of course he was stern and withdrawn. He was a good soldier, he had to be. He was God's chosen son.

 _As it is in Heaven, so it must be on Earth._

How prophetic. 

"Cas," Dean says. Pleads. "Don't bullshit me here."

The worst thing about an angel's Grace is its uncanny ability to sense deception. "You were… haughty," Castiel admits, with some difficulty. 

"Gotta give me more to go on than that, buddy." But Dean's tense again, back to sitting as rigidly as a trainee in a boot camp. "Give it to me straight here. In terms I can understand."

Castiel feels a flare of annoyance at being pushed. "Some things are better left unsaid."

"Lay it on me!" Dean growls. "I don't hold back on you, so you don't hold back on me."

Annoyance burns into anger. "You want it in terms you can understand, Dean?" he snaps. "To paraphrase something you've said on multiple occasions, you had an _entire oak tree_ shoved up your _ass_."

Dean blinks, goes quiet. Castiel regrets the remark as soon as it vibrates out of his vessel's strained, fragile human vocal chords. "Dean, I-"

"See?" Dean smiles to himself, crooked. "Bag of dicks."

"I _loved_ you!" Gabriel snarls. The statement is so intense, so passionate, that Dean's face colours instantly. "Yeah, you were a little up-tight, a little high-strung. So what? You were trying to look out for us, keep Dad happy. You did what He wanted so we didn't have to." Gabriel presses a finger to Dean's chest. His own is heaving. "You did everything you could to protect your little brothers, to give them a better life than one as Daddy's little soldiers. If you were perfect, if you never made another stupid mistake, then He'd only ever need _one_ good little soldier. And that was always going to be you, you knew that from the Goddamn start, so you figured you better fucking _act like it_." Gabriel chokes off, finger still pressing bruises into Dean's skin. "But go ahead and tell me that doesn't sound like you, Dean. Go ahead and tell me you'll end up being someone Sammy wouldn't even recognise."

Dean opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. Finally, he massages his temples and moves the gear out of park. "I guess you got the whole 'Mystery Spot' idea from your Dad, then, huh? I mean, He sure seems to like it when He can sit back, relax, and watch things repeat over and over like we're His very own copy of the Sims: Deluxe Edition. Can't be a coincidence."

Of all that's been said, this is what makes Gabriel go quiet.

* * *

When they get back to the motel, Dean throws his keys on the desk in the corner and himself on the bed. He buries his head in the pillow and breathes in slow. He lets out a pitiful groan and says, "Please, Sammy, just find us a case? I know we have… other shit to deal with, but… just- I wanna do something normal. I _need_ to do something normal."

The rest of the room carefully doesn't point out that he instinctively spoke with his true voice to avoid being muffled by the pillow. Though Castiel makes careful note. It means he's placing a level of trust in them he wouldn't with anyone else, and that has to be a good sign. And it also means Sam has no difficulty comprehending angelic voices. His… transformation… is progressing. 

"Okay, Dean," Sam promises. "I'll find us a case. Just… sit tight, I guess."

"Not going anywhere."

Sam grabs his laptop out of his bag and plugs it into the aging, yellowed outlet between the two twin beds. He yawns, rolls his shoulders, and sits next to Dean, who lets out an exhausted huff. "Budge over, bed hog."

Dean doesn't protest, just rolls over and reburies his face in the next pillow. Sam leans back, rests the laptop on his chest, and flips it open with one hand. The other he settles on his brother's shoulder, thumb rubbing absently at the flannel of Dean's shirt. Dean makes a contented noise. 

Gabriel flops down on the empty bed and flips on the TV. He flicks between channels, from the slow drone of the news to the peppy jingles of advertisements, and eventually to an animated children's cartoon about a talking jay and raccoon. A fitting choice of animals for Gabriel in particular, and a fitting choice in general, especially when Castiel catches the title card. Something strange and whimsical trying to pass itself off as something normal, much like themselves. Indeed, the show doesn't seem particularly regular at all. 

Humans. Capable of dreaming up the wildest things, and yet still they fear meeting them face-to-face. 

"Come watch TV, Cas. Unwind for a while." Gabriel waves him over. "Get to know pop culture sooner rather than later."

He sits. It's up to Dean alone to learn to accept himself. Castiel can't force him.

* * *

Sam's found them a case by the next morning. They’re off on another car trip on another winding route through rural America like nothing’s happened at all. Castiel gets the feeling that it’s the only thing keeping Dean sane. Nobody mentions that Dean can simply fly to their destination.

They stop at a gas station, where Dean buys cheap jerky and a packet of chips. Nobody mentions he no longer has to eat.

They pull into a rest stop for Sam, and Dean gets up to go with him. Nobody mentions he no longer needs to relieve himself. Or stretch his legs. Or breathe onto his hands to warm them up.

Nobody mentions anything substantial at all.

The words itch in Castiel's throat. Denial is dangerous, and more importantly, fragile. You can't hide from a fact of nature. It always comes back to haunt you in the end, Castiel would know. 

But he keeps quiet. Setting Dean off right now could have disastrous consequences. Dean's always had a great deal of power at his fingertips, a slick, practiced lethality that earnt him a fierce reputation. But now that power has the potential to go catastrophically wrong. Dean unknowingly wields the strength that had forced Satan into the Pit. 

Castiel has faith in Dean. But he doesn't have faith in Michael. 

They reach their destination in the early evening, when the townsfolk are packing up their work and heading home for the day. Dean takes one look at the traffic, sighs, and rolls down the window to the slowly-setting sun. The air smells like Chinese takeout from the busy restaurant to their left. "Looks like we won't have time to get anything done today," he says. 

Sam nods. "I've got more research I can do from the motel. You could join me, you know."

"Or I could be watching Kitchen Nightmares reruns. Gordon Ramsay chewing out a bunch of idiots who don't know a sirloin from a filet sounds much more appealing right now, I gotta tell you."

"You're such a foodie," Sam grumbles. "You'd think someone so into cooking would eat more vegetables."

"Good cooking doesn't mean healthy cooking, Sammy," Dean tells him sagely. "Besides, I'll eat my vegetables when they don't look like something you'd serve to a herd of hungry goats."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Take the next right. Motel's just up ahead."

* * *

The motel is 60 dollars a night with floorboards that creak like old bones. The man at the reception desk raises an eyebrow at four men asking for one room, but otherwise says nothing. He's probably seen stranger. This is one of those places situated between never and nowhere that's bound to pick up the weirder side of humanity and beyond. 

Dean dumps their bags on a chair in the corner of the room, which sags concerningly under the weight, and stretches out on the bed languorously. The remote is scratched up and dirty, but he picks it up without a second thought and flips through the channels.

Sam sighs, then gets his laptop out of one of the bags. "You could at least be a little helpful, Dean."

"I'm gracing you with my awesome company. That's very helpful." Sam shifts, a hand on his hip and the other on his computer. He wrinkles his nose. Dean wrinkles his right back. "Don't stand in front of the TV, man. Dick move."

"I'm just gonna lower the volume a bit. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"They're already twisted," Dean says. "You could stand to take a break for once, y'know. Put the research down and let Gordon Ramsay school you on the ways of the master chef."

Sam considers. "As long as it's not Doctor Sexy."

"And his cowboy boots," Gabriel chimes in. 

Dean makes a face. "Shut up."

Castiel tilts his head. "You shouldn't be ashamed of your attraction to this man, Dean. Evidently he's very attractive."

Dean splutters, drops the remote. "I'm not-" He glares at Gabriel. "Now look what you've done, asshole."

"How is this my fault?" Gabriel flops down next to him on the bed. "In fact, you should thank me. I'm the reason you got to be within three feet of Doctor Sexy without him filing a restraining order."

"Hey! I'm nothing but a perfect gentleman when it comes to my partners. Ask any of them."

Sam snorts. "That's half the population, Dean."

"Shut up and go shower, Sam."

For some reason, this makes Sam stop short. "You don't want first dibs?"

"Nah," Dean says, a little too casual. "You go ahead. I'm good here."

"With Gabriel annoying you?" Sam pushes. 

"I honestly just tune him out at this point. Makes things a whole lot easier."

Sam eyes him a little longer, fingers twitching at his sides. Dean shows no sign of noticing, though he must. Eventually Sam relents and enters the bathroom with a frown.

Castiel goes to point out that being faced with a life-changing shock may leave Dean's behaviour altered for some time, then thinks better of it. No doubt Sam is already aware and won't appreciate any further reminders. Dean's stability is a pillar in his life, just as his stability is a pillar in Dean's. When either pillar comes crumbling down, both brothers are off-balance. 

That's what happens when you've been let down so many times, when you can only rely on one other person besides yourself. You fight desperately to keep what's so often taken away.

Castiel knows the feeling. 

Gabriel's eagerly snatched up the remote from where Dean dropped it, arms half-way off the bed in an attempt to keep it that way. Dean elbows him in the side. He elbows back. "I'm not even changing the channel! Look!"

"I don't trust you with that thing."

"Yeah, well, the feeling's mutual," Gabriel returns savagely, and throws the remote across the room. 

Castiel sighs and summons it into one palm. "You two bicker like fledglings. I'll choose."

Dean ceases his assault and settles back under the covers. "Fine. But if you try and make us watch a nature documentary, I'm booking another room."

* * *

Thirty minutes into a documentary on unsolved murders, Castiel hears a loud shout from the shower. 

"Shit!" Everyone's half-way off the bed, wings spread and readied before it's followed by, "I forgot my damn towel! _Dean!_ "

Gabriel and Castiel relax. Dean does not. 

"Yeah?"

"Can you grab my towel for me?"

"Get it yourself!" Dean calls. "You've got two arms and legs!"

Castiel catches Sam's annoyed huff underneath the steady beat of water. "Even if I thought now was the time to start experimenting with exhibitionism, I'm dripping wet and freezing my ass off, dude. Just get me the towel!"

Dean looks at the bag, unzipped and brimming with the sum total of what the Winchesters have to their name, even after all these years. Sam's towel is right there on top, faded and fraying slightly at the edges. It's already a decent portion of the way to the floor, partially unfolded and dangling in the stale motel air. For such a harmless object, Dean is staring at it like it might set him on fire. 

"Stop watching Skinemax for five seconds and help me out here!"

Dean stares a second longer, then grabs the towel and heads to the door. The doorknob squeals as he pushes it open, buffeting the room with a rush of steam, and peeks his head inside. "Fine! Prissy bitch!"

The water shuts off. "Jerk." A sigh. "Don't just stand there, man. You're letting all the hot air out. Pass me the towel!"

Dean hesitates. 

"Dean, please, this isn't rocket science." Sam's irritated groan doesn't shake Dean out of whatever trance he's in. "Lift one foot, put it in front of the other, rinse and repeat. Then you stick out your arm and let go."

"I know how to move, smartass."

But Dean doesn't. 

Castiel reaches out with his Grace, checks Dean over with hundreds of eyes. Physically, he's fine. Mentally, the feedback Castiel's getting is like nails on a chalkboard. Telepathic reverb. Sam must sense something's wrong now, too, because he asks, "Hey, what's wrong? Why can't you give me the towel, Dean?"

"I-" Dean starts. Stops. Sweat beads at his temples. He hasn't learned to tamp down on his vessel's natural reactions yet, still falls prey to humanity's deepest instincts. "I can't go in there. I'm sorry, Sammy, I just can't."

"Why not?" Dean shakes his head, even though Sam can't see. Sam seems to understand regardless. "Why not?" he repeats. Then, gently, "You can tell me, Dean. I'm not gonna judge you."

Dean's voice breaks. "There's a _mirror_ in there."

There's a pause. Eventually, Sam extends an arm from behind the shower curtain. "Toss it here."

Dean throws it like it's burned him and hurriedly steps back into the safety of the main room. When Sam emerges, towel wrapped snugly around his hips, his face is impossibly sad. "Don't look at me like that," Dean murmurs.

"Dean…" Sam frowns. "We have to talk about this."

Dean looks away, unable to bear the heavy weight of Sam's gaze. He can see it more clearly now than he ever has, and he was already weak to it then. "I'm not 'talking about feelings' with you, Sam. You know I hate chick flick moments."

"You can't just ignore it until it goes away."

Dean's lip curls. "It's not going away, I know."

Castiel feels the ripple and stretch of the wings at his back and comes to the sinking realisation that nothing he can say will help. For as long as he can remember, he's been a Celestial being, with a singular purpose. God created him for one thing and one thing only, to protect. He may have chosen free will, but until recently, he's never lived it. Never breathed it, incorporated it so fundamentally into his personhood. 

"Look, I know it's hard," Sam says. "But nobody can change who you are. Only you can do that. I'll admit it took me a while to figure that out myself, but I didn't have any help."

"You could've come to me," Dean says. 

"But I didn't. Which is why I'm not letting you make the same mistake."

"But you've always been _you,_ Sammy," Dean pleads. "Yeah, so you've had demon mojo swimming around in you since you were a baby, but it's never once stopped you from being Sam Winchester. Badass hunter. Hotshot law student. My little brother. Demon or no demon, you're always you."

"And you're not?"

"I'm all made-up, don'tcha know? Only thing real about me is what I can do for the three of you."

"Bullshit," Sam hisses. Dean blinks, eyes wide. "Dean Winchester is a real person. Just because he used to go by another name, act a little different, doesn't make him any less real. Just like Anna, you Fell so you could be _free,_ Dean. Be your true self, without Heaven trying to stop you. Dean Winchester is who Michael always wished he could be. That makes him the most real person here."

Dean's eyes fill with tears. All of them. "Thought I said no chick flick moments," he says, but he pulls Sam into a hug. 

"I was happy for you, bozo," Gabriel says. He comes closer, rests a hand on Dean's shoulder. "When I found out. Nobody gets wanting to stick it to the dickbags upstairs and frolic with the humans like I do. I didn't want to walk back your choice for you, Dean. I swear. I just… I can't watch everything I love get destroyed. Not again. And I can't save it all on my own."

Dean scrubs at his eyes. "I know. Everyone knows I'd do anything to save my family. Seems like you would, too. I can't blame you for that."

Gabriel nods. "Thank you."

"C'mere, Cas," Dean says. "If we're doing a group hug, we better do it right. No man left behind."

Awkwardly, Castiel steps forward and into the embrace. It is nice, he'll admit. Very warm. "Ah, I think one of my feathers is in your nose, Dean. I apologise."

Dean bursts out laughing. "No problem," he says. "Wrong plane of reality, anyway."

Sam perks up. "Dean! _Dean!_ You forgot to tell me about their wings!"

Dean's tears are nothing more than sticky tracks on his cheeks. "God, Sam, could you _be_ any more of a nerd?"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge, asshole?"

Castiel lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, hadn't even needed to hold.

Despite his anger at being lied to, he thinks he understands Gabriel more now. If this is what a Flock is like, he wouldn't have been able to bear losing one either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regular Show was, in fact, airing at the same time as S5. And let's not lie and act like Gabriel doesn't appreciate the hell out of that style of humour. After all, the original skit that inspired the cartoon was about two dudes working at a gas station getting high off their asses on a slow day and trying to act natural with each passing customer. Dean's a Scooby Doo kind of guy, but Gabriel totally gets blazed watching Adult Swim at some ungodly hour of the morning. I can see him vibing with the chaotic energy of some Aqua Teen Hunger Force or some South Park.
> 
> Yes, I chose to talk about cartoons first, instead of all the angst and manpain. This is very important stuff, dammit. 
> 
> Okay, onto the real stuff. This is the "oh shit now what" chapter. But we're about to hit 5x16, Dark Side of the Moon. Oh, bOooooY, do I have some stuff to do with that. 
> 
> Also, if you're catching all the queer allegories: yes. Yes, I am doing that on purpose. It's my gay agenda, what can I say?
> 
> Double also, if you'd like the album I listen to on repeat when writing this fic, just for funzies, [here](https://soundcloud.com/opalfruits/sets/data_haven) it is! It really helps with the somber tones.


	13. Flying Blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, spending an entire chapter (and future chapters) writing giant, winged, many-headed monsters is actually a lot harder than it looks. ;w; I hope I didn’t miss the bar in describing the towering angelbeasts. I want to capture that discordant feeling of seeing human movements and expressions on an alien-looking creature (and in Gabriel’s case, when that human mask slips), but words hardddd. Writing haaaard. 
> 
> Fun as hell, though. Hope you enjoy <3

Dean's out cold. Sam, too, but he doesn't snore quite as loudly. Castiel can't really focus when another Celestial being is accidentally using their true voice in their sleep. Luckily nothing more than a few mumbles, not even enough to make the room rumble, only the bed. Which has most certainly seen worse. 

"That's cute," Gabriel says. "Awww, look, he's wrapped Sammy in his wings."

Indeed, Sam is curled happily in two, a bed of gold and bronze like bathing in the sun. His transformation has been progressing more rapidly, and his nose actually scrunches up when it's tickled by some of Dean's feathers. Every day his connection to the Celestial plane grows stronger. 

"Sam's making significant progress," Castiel notes. "He seems to be taking to your Grace remarkably well."

"His soul was made to absorb energy, both angelic and demonic. Funny how it's being Lucifer's vessel that's actually gonna stop him from… well, becoming Lucifer's vessel." Gabriel smiles down at him gently. "I can confidently say he won't be exploding. That's about all I can confidently say, though. There's never been anything like him before."

"He's very special," Castiel agrees. 

"Our precious." Gabriel snickers at his own reference. Castiel really should catch up on pop culture. "It definitely makes for a precious picture, that's for sure. How dead do you think I'd be if I took one?"

"I wouldn't test it."

"Ah, so tempting, though." Gabriel grins wickedly. "Besides, what he doesn't know can't hurt him."

"His recent acquisition of angelic Grace would make that somewhat difficult."

Gabriel frowns. "Party pooper."

"Realist," Castiel corrects.

Gabriel is about to disagree when the door cracks and collapses on its rusty hinges. The brothers are awake by the time Castiel and Gabriel have finished unsheathing their blades. 

They're human. That's what catches Castiel the most off-guard. All these months of dodging Heaven's forces and the first people to get the better of them are, well. People. Men, probably not out of their thirties, with ski masks and guns that look like they've seen better days. Their stance is practiced, though their heartrates are elevated. Hunters. "Hands in the air!"

"What the fuck?" Dean asks. 

Castiel's thoughts exactly. 

"I said, 'Hands in the air'!"

Dean looks at them like they're stupid. "Now why the Hell would we do that?" A beat later, "Hold on a minute." He squints. "Is that you, Roy?" One of the men tenses. "It is, isn't it? Which makes you Walt." Dean gives the other a charming smile. "Hiya, Walt."

Sam raises an eyebrow. The two men lift up their masks. "Don't matter," says Walt. 

Dean holds out his hands, placating. "Well, is it just me, or do you two seem a tad upset?"

Walt ignores him. "You think you can flip the switch on the Apocalypse and just walk away, Sam?"

Sam's eyes widen. "Who told you that?"

"We ain't the only hunters after you."

"Sucks to suck," Dean says, "'cause none of you are gonna get anywhere."

For some reason, that makes Walt's mouth twitch up into a smug grin. For the first time, Dean actually seems somewhat concerned. "Yeah, we heard you got angel bodyguards." He opens his jacket, sticks one hand in his pocket, and pulls out a bloodied, crumpled piece of paper. 

A banishing sigil.

Dean freezes. "Woah, okay. Hold up a sec here, guys. That is so not the good idea you think it is." His eyes dart between the two, frantic. "Trust me, it's not gonna work out the way you want."

"'Trust you'?" Walt spits.

"C'mon now, we can talk this through, can't we?"

"We ain't here to talk."

"Please, just let me explain," Sam starts, but Walt just sneers. 

"Like I said, we ain't here to talk."

He slams his palm onto the paper, and everything goes white.

* * *

He comes to with mouths full of grass, bitter and earthy and sticking between his fangs. Castiel spits, and spits again, and blinks what eyes aren't in the dirt, momentarily forgetting himself. The second thing he notices is James Novak's face, glaring at him, unamused. 

"Castiel," James says, and oh. Yes, when confronted with it, his voice _is_ much lighter, isn't it? 

"We're in Heaven," Castiel realises.

"Yeah. I noticed." Blue eyes narrow. "Also, we're separate."

"I noticed," Castiel mirrors. "I'm sorry, your soul must have been accepted into Heaven. I- your body-"

James sighs. "It's yours now, isn't it?"

"Yes. Heaven only removes souls that don't belong. You were faithful and good. They won't… want you to leave, and I don't have the ability to convince the Host to return you. Your body will remain on Earth, but not your soul. I'm sorry."

"I see. Just…" James trails off, looks around, a little lost. "This isn't a part of Heaven I belong in, I can tell. Where do I go to get out of here?"

Castiel picks himself up out of the dirt, shakes himself off, and takes in his surroundings. A wide stretch of field, dotted here and there with trees, split through by a winding, cracked road. Stifling hot and muggy summer air, the chirp of crickets under the starry night sky. No, this isn't James' memory, this is Dean's.

Castiel kneels, brings a head down to James' face. The elk. Elk are non-threatening animals, aren't they? Humans hunt them, after all. Then again, humans hunt everything. Even themselves. "Follow the road," he says, carefully. "It will take you where you need to go."

James gives the road a sceptical glance, but nods. "So this is where we say goodbye." He shrugs. "I can't really say it's been good, Castiel. But I understand where you're coming from, I guess. Don't think either of us really saw this coming."

"No. I'm sorry. Your family-"

"Watch over them," James says firmly. "You took away my chance to do it myself, so you owe me that, at least."

"I do. And I will."

"Thank you." He sighs, stares up into the stars, where God isn't watching. "Good luck, Castiel. I have a feeling you're going to need it."

"Thank you." Castiel knows his smile would be anything but comforting, so he settles for trailing a feather down a familiar, worn trenchcoat. James' soul chooses to wear in death what he wore in life. "Goodbye, Jimmy. May you be at peace."

James quirks a pithy smile. "Yeah," he says. Then, he turns and walks away.

* * *

Castiel ambles through the field, carefully sidestepping trees, towards the only object in sight. Bright swaths of light in the sky, spread through the night like great, gleaming swatches of paint. Sparkles of reds and greens and blues exploding around them in loud booms and fading into ash.

Dean's wings. Fireworks.

He finds Dean curled up in a clearing, hands clutching his heads, letting out pitiful groans of pain. He blinks open a few eyes, which look up at Castiel in confusion for a few moments, then clear with a sigh of relief. "Cas, thank God. Where are we? Why is everything so fucking small?" He points a trembling claw to a small figure at his feet. "Actually, first, please tell me you know what that thing is. Because it sure as Hell isn't my brother."

Castiel refocuses his gaze on the image of a human child, not even a tenth of their size. A near-flawless recreation of Dean's memory of Sam at thirteen. Humans wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the real and the remembered. But of course, Dean is no longer human. 

"We're in Heaven. Specifically, the part of Heaven God made for humanity."

It takes a moment for this to process. Finally, Dean murmurs, "Okay. Heaven. Right. Why exactly are we in Heaven?"

Castiel tilts his heads. "You must have flown us somewhere you thought we'd be safe when you felt our vessels go into freefall."

Castiel watches as Dean's disorientation dissipates completely, wings snapping forward in an angry rush, claws scoring deep trenches into the ground. The child Sam doesn't react, just continues to watch the dazzling display of colour, replaying an endless loop of Dean's most treasured moments. "Fucking Roy, fucking _Walt,_ " Dean growls. "Guy always was a loose cannon. And Roy always was his number one asskisser. Should've figured he'd shoot first and ask questions later."

Castiel settles down beside him. "This isn't your fault, Dean. We were ambushed, and you acted on instinct."

"My head hasn't been on straight." Dean squeezes his eyes shut, necks bowed. "Christ, I'm such an idiot. That was a rookie mistake, Cas. I never would've let small fry like those two get the drop on us if I hadn't been wasting time stuck up my own ass, having a midlife crisis."

"If I hadn't let myself get distracted, you wouldn't have needed to." He grimaces, teeth bared to the humid night air. He'd let his guard down: a critical, glaringly obvious error in judgement. "I'm the one at fault."

"That's not true either, man. Hindsight's 20/20," Dean insists. "We've all been off our game the past few days. We're just lucky it was those jackasses that showed up and not Zachariah and his cronies. Just… we can't let this happen again."

Castiel hears the unspoken implication. _We won't get that lucky a second time._

"Agreed."

"We've gotta get outta here before they sound the alarms. Where's the real Sammy? And where's Gabriel?"

"More of Sam's soul belongs in Heaven than it does in Hell." Dean's eyes soften, and he nods. "You'll be able to find him in an adjacent Heaven, reliving his own memories. Gabriel is likely closeby."

"We don't all get lumped together? I mean… humans don't?"

"Not typically, no."

Dean's wings droop. It's a bizarre display of emotion for an Archangel, especially for one as reserved as Michael. Gabriel's expressiveness manifests as a natural part of his rebellious nature, a proverbial middle finger to the decorum that's expected of him. Seeing something like it on God's chosen son is oddly… dissonant. Another reason Dean seems so different from his past self. "Seems kinda lonely."

Castiel has never given it much thought. Angels round up humans that stray too close to the Host, and that's usually the extent of their interaction. Most angels consider humans too much of a nuisance to stay and talk to, too boring and too limited in their understanding of anything that falls beyond their realm of existence. Only a few have ever shown interest. 

Castiel had been one of them, before he was designated the Winchesters' ward. But he was always busy, always on a new assignment, never free enough to take the time to… people-watch.

"Souls that need each other find each other."

"How? Because I could definitely use that right about now."

"All paths in Heaven are designed to take you where you feel you should go, Dean. You only need to follow one to find Sam."

* * *

Dean walks on the asphalt with hesitant steps, Castiel clamping his mouths firmly shut against the urge to push him to use his wings, until the boundaries of his memories melt into the boundaries of Sam's. Still night, still the scent of earth and dew, but it's cold now, the plants less wild, frost-tipped grass too tamed and controlled to be anything but suburbia. Dean comes to a halt at a quaint yellow Craftsman house, perfectly preserved in this single moment for all of eternity like a fly in amber. 

He kneels down and peers through the brightly-lit downstairs windows. Over his shoulders, Castiel can vaguely make out a family sat down at a full-to-bursting dinner table. Sam is in the middle, helping himself to a leg of turkey. When he looks up and sees a giant, glowing green eye instead of a pleasant view of the neatly-manicured lawn, he drops his fork with a yelp. "What the fuck?"

Dean flinches away, pulls his wings in tight. The soft velvet of a wolf's ears draw back in shame. "Sammy?"

"Dean?" Sam opens the window, chilled night breeze ruffling his hair. "Dean, is that you?"

Dean lowers the wolf's head back down to eye level. "Yeah, Sammy, it's me."

"Wow, and you said _I_ had puppy eyes." A wet nose sniffles in Sam's face, making him laugh. "I guess I can see you for real in my dreams now. That's amazing. This is amazing."

"This isn't a dream," Dean says. "I, uh- I may have panicked and accidentally flew us upstairs."

Sam blinks away his awe. " _Upstairs_ upstairs?"

"Thank you for riding Dean Air? The booze is complementary."

Sam looks around him, fully taking in the scene he's surrounded by for the first time. "Huh," he says. "You know, when you bite dust, they say your life flashes before your eyes, right? Figures Heaven would be a place to relive your greatest hits."

"Yeah. This is Heaven. One big film reel." Dean's heads snarl. "Where's the triplets and the latex, right? A man has needs."

"Woah, calm down there, Fenrir," Sam says. "Or maybe Cerberus is a better fit."

"You can take your mythology nerd schtick and shove it up your ass, Sam." Dean huffs at Sam's unrepentant grin. "Hold up, are you saying playing footsie with brace-face in there is a - a _trophy moment_ for you? I woke up on the 4th of July we burned down that field!"

Sam chuckles at the memory, then gives Dean a soothing smile. "Dean, I was 11 years old. This was my first real Thanksgiving."

"What are you talking about?" Dean protests. "We had Thanksgiving every year."

"We had a bucket of extra-crispy and Dad passed out on the couch."

There's no comeback to that. "Okay, that's fair," Dean concedes. 

Before Sam can gloat at his victory, the miniature slice of small-town America begins to rumble underneath them. A lamp shakes itself onto the floor with a crash, shattering into a thousand pieces of ceramic and glass. Pictures of smiling faces fall flat on their backs, staring sightlessly at the popcorn ceiling. Sam stumbles forward, braces himself on Dean's nose. "What's that?"

"Shit, they noticed," Dean hisses. "Quick, Sam, uh. Climb up, I guess. We need to find Gabriel and get the Hell out of dodge." He gives Castiel a fleeting glance. It's not fleeting enough for Castiel to miss the panic in his eyes. "Or you can ride with Cas. He's a little shorter."

"I'll manage," Sam says. He hops over the window frame without a second glance. With surprising grace, he clambers up Dean's snout, grabbing great tufts of golden brown fur, until he comes to rest between Dean's ears. "Alright, giddy up, Clifford."

Dean grumbles and rights himself painfully slowly. Castiel can hear the beating of wings getting closer by the second. He wonders if this is what souls feel when they wait to be reaped. "You okay up there, Sammy?"

"I'm not the one afraid of flying." Sam strokes a hand through the thick fur, and Dean's trembling recedes slightly. "I'll be fine. Relax. You used to give me piggyback rides as a kid, didn't you?"

"Yeah, when I was five foot seven and barely out of middle school, not the size of a goddamn skyscraper," Dean says, somewhere close to hysterical.

"Dean," Castiel urges. "Sam is a capable hunter. And we're running out of time."

"Just… hold on tight, okay? Please."

Sam has to give him one last reassuring pat before he spreads his wings and takes flight.

* * *

Castiel glides close to Dean's flank, feels the streams of air under his wings and whipping over his feathers, and swallows down wave after wave of aching nostalgia. It's been so long since he last stretched them out in Heaven's skies. He hadn't let himself wish for another chance, had fought the longing swiftly and brutally whenever it threatened to seep into his thoughts like the sweetest poison.

Sating that desire is just as intoxicating as he feared.

Searching for Gabriel becomes Castiel's job, while Dean frets over his brother's safety and tries not to make any sudden movements. 

Castiel has a talent for reconnaissance. His wings were made for stealth, to slip through the air silent and unseen. They mimic the night sky, pitch blacks sewn through with shimmers of navy nebulas and twinkling white stars. God's hands had sculpted him for infiltration missions, which was why he'd been chosen over all the other candidates to rescue Dean from Hell. In the shadowed crevasses where Alistair had tried to mould Dean into the model executioner, Castiel had found himself perfectly camouflaged. 

He leaves behind Sam's joyous whooping and Dean's panicked commentary and dives, wind rushing through fur and feathers. He skims low over treetops and shingled roofs, past skyscrapers and radio towers, through Heaven after Heaven, a hundred strangers' most precious memories in the blink of an eye. 

He finds Gabriel in an elderly couple's Heaven, lying half-buried in sand, shaded by the palm trees of the Caribbean island they'd visited for their honeymoon. He's warm and shining under the imaginary sun. Dizzy, but otherwise unharmed. 

Castiel circles him once, twice, and flies back to act as Dean's guide. 

"Cas?" Dean's voice is still high and shaky with fear. "Please tell me you found him. I don't know how long I can keep this up."

"Deep breaths," Sam offers. The solemnity is somewhat offset by a dimpled smile and cheeks flushed with excitement. 

"Shuddup and stop rubbing it in, dammit. We all know you're having the time of your life up there."

"Honestly, dude? Suck it up, 'cause this is the closest I'm ever gonna have to the full theme park experience. Outside of countless sleepless nights playing Roller Coaster Tycoon in my dorm, I mean." Sam shrugs. "It's not like Dad was gonna take us to Disneyland."

Dean sticks out a few tongues. "Ugh, and spend days in line with Mrs. Apple Pie Lifestyle and her 2.5 kids? He'd rather die. _I'd_ rather die."

Seeing an Archangel act so childish is almost disturbingly surreal, even after spending so much time with Gabriel. Castiel suspects this is more a front for Sam's benefit than a show of genuine immaturity. It's the same principle Gabriel himself often follows -- people don't tend to lose their minds to the numbing grip of terror if the nightmarish creature confronting you has an infantile sense of humour. 

Of course, Sam will love a towering, many-limbed, multi-headed beast with equal fierceness as a six foot, freckled dirty blonde. He'd only struggled to accept the strange and unpalatable parts of his own soul, not others'. Certainly not one that belongs to Dean Winchester. Dean is his family. His best friend. The only person who has had his back from day one. Dean and Sam are two planets in co-synchronous orbit. Like a plant away from sunlight, one withers without the other. 

No grim disfiguration, no horrifying transformation, no appearance, no matter how monstrous, could ever scare Sam away. Castiel knows this without having to ask. So why doesn't Dean?

"Gabriel landed a few Heavens away. He doesn't appear to be injured, but he's experiencing some disorientation."

"Thanks, Cas. I- I don't really know what I'm doing up here."

Castiel struggles for words. Angels leave God's hands with the capability for flight. Legions of disposable warriors are useless if they're born untrained. He has never had to teach another of his kind anything but the newest styles of combat. "Flying is instinctual. Just… don't think about it too closely, and it should come naturally."

"Nothing about this is natural," Dean snaps.

He falls into place at Castiel's side regardless.

* * *

Gabriel lets out a weak moan when Castiel gently nudges him awake. "Can't I just keep my head in the sand a bit longer?"

"We can't let Zachariah catch up to us."

Gabriel whines, "Why not? We could take him."

"Gabriel, we're in _Heaven_. We're behind the wall. This is our only chance to find the few angels left with knowledge of God's plan, or His location on Earth."

Gabriel shakes the sand from his wings without a thought to the three who have to sidestep it. "You're such a spy sometimes, you know that?"

"Actually, I'm with Cas on this one," Dean says. Sam looks down in surprise. 

"Last I checked, you wanted to break God's nose. Now you think He can help?"

"He's the only one who can." Dean makes a sweeping gesture. "I mean, look at this, Sam. Look at _us_. We are royally boned. So, prayer: the last hope of a desperate man. Or… whatever it is we are."

"Lemme guess," Gabriel says, tone long-suffering, eyes rolling like an overdramatic adolescent. The apathy is unexpectedly grating. "You want to take us down the Axis Mundi. Find Joshua in the Garden and make him fess up."

"He's the only angel that still talks directly to God," Castiel snaps. "You think maybe, just maybe, we should find out what the Hell God has been saying?"

Gabriel just snorts. "He's talked to God for thousands of years, and he's been as cryptic as the man Himself that whole time." He shrugs at Castiel's venomous glare. "Don't quit your dayjob, that's all I'm saying."

"Wait, wait, wait. Take us down the what to where?" Dean asks. "Layman's terms, guys, please."

"It's the pathway you followed to get to Sam," Castiel explains. "It appears differently to everyone. For you, it was two-lane asphalt, but it can take any form. A tunnel, a hiking trail, a railway, anything."

"And it takes you where you want to go."

"At first. If you keep going, it will take you to the Garden. Joshua sees to its upkeep."

Dean tilts his heads. Sam leans with the motion, smooth and practiced from years of biking. Hunters can't get picky about the vehicles they have to steal, and motorcycles are easier to jack than cars. "So, like, the Garden of Eden? Or what?"

"Some see Eden, yes. As with all of Heaven's constructs, it appears as something familiar to the beholder." Not many have reason to visit. Castiel himself has only been once, in his earliest stages. It had been the day Castiel was first sent to his Garrison. Michael had overseen the process. Ever at God's side. Withdrawn, not a hint of emotion on his faces. Nothing like now. If the touch of his Grace weren't the same, Castiel could easily have fooled himself into thinking Dean was simply Michael's identical twin. "The Garden is- was God's throne room. He ruled all of Heaven from His seat there, before He left."

"So, to get there we just… follow the Yellow Brick Road?"

Castiel nods. "Yes. Without access to your past self, your mind still sees what a human would expect to see."

"Great. So, another trip down memory lane for me and Sammy. This time with annoying commentary." Dean levels Gabriel with a pointed glance.

Gabriel puts a hand to his chest. It angles his claws into the sun, the light of their reflection making Sam wince. "Ouch. And here I was, all excited for a chance to get to know you two better."

"Not my idea of a good time." Dean grimaces. "Hell, I'd take getting wined and dined over this any day, and that's saying something."

"Awww." Gabriel slings an arm over Dean's shoulders. A few snouts twitch with the effort not to snarl. "Tell ya what, how about I take you two somewhere nice when we get back? Or would you rather I make you a commemorative souvenir? 'I went to Heaven and all I got was this t-shirt'?"

Dean groans. "Please, just… stop talking."

Mercifully, Gabriel does. He closes his mouths and squints, curious, at Sam. Dean's eyes cross as Gabriel leans in to get a better look. Sam blinks rapidly at the sudden face-full of Archangel. "O-kay," Dean says, at length. He pushes at one of Gabriel's heads, which clacks a beak at him in warning. "I don't kiss before the first date."

"As much as I'd like to put that to the test, I'm not leaning in to lock lips right now, Dean-o." 

"What're you lookin' at, then?"

"He's looking at Sam," Castiel says. "And I think I see why."

The wolf's four crossed, glowing eyes widen, while the stag's nostrils flare. Castiel has seen the body he still associates with Michael, with sternness and righteousness and icy cold stares, operate with such insane expressiveness in the past few days that he feels like he's walked into a dream. "What? What's wrong with Sammy?"

"Nothing's wrong with him," Gabriel assures. He's silent a while longer, poking and prodding Sam with the gentle jabs of a raccoon's button nose. Then he leans back, scratching the backs of a few necks. "Huh. It must be all the exposure to Celestial energy he's had recently."

"Uh, what? What is?" Sam holds his hands in front of his face, clenches and unclenches his fists a few times. "I don't see anything."

A smile begins to grow on one of Gabriel's faces. Featureless and blank as a mask, save for that one rising, fanged grin. Sam does, admittedly, look a little perturbed. "It's only from a few angles right now," Gabriel says, conversationally, "but I'm starting to be able to see your true form."

"He _gets_ one?" Dean says, at the same time as Sam's, "My _what?_ "

"Well, you didn't think you'd still look human, did you?" It's glib, a little tone-deaf, and Dean bristles defensively, fur standing on end. Sam sinks into it like a plush rug. "You're two-thirds out your humanity, Sammy. Your soul's gonna have to reflect that change at some point. Looks like that point is starting now."

"What's… what's it look like?"

"It's too early to tell. It's just a blur right now, almost see-through." Gabriel hums. "Cool, though, right?"

"You don't have a clue, do you? This kind of shit fucks with our heads, keeps us up at night. It's not a fun fact to pull out on trivia night," Dean grits out. "I wasn't all that okay with looking like a freak, and I _haven't_ been called one all my life."

Gabriel's grin fades. "Sammy? You don't think it's cool?" All at once, he's the picture of a heartbroken child, lips wobbling from the effort not to cry. "Should I not have said anything?"

Dean looks at him, a hint of fear brimming in his eyes. The infantile humour can no longer mask the monster underneath. "Christ, I can see your real face, and I still sometimes forget you're not human."

"Dean," Sam warns. "I'm handling it. Step off."

"Just- you shouldn't have to go through that, man." Dean deflates. "It gets to you, you know? And he's expecting you to shrug it off like nothing's happened, nothing's _changed._ "

"That's just it, Dean. For them, nothing _has_ changed. Nothing that really matters, anyway. So I'll have a new face. Or two. Whatever, right? I'm still me." Sam sighs. "It's just easier for them to see that. Human bodies are vessels for them. They're used to thinking of what they walk around in down there as the weird meat suit and up here as the real thing." He rubs behind one of Dean's ears. "Thanks for looking out for me, okay? But you've gotta cut them some slack."

"You gonna be okay, Sam?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine." The certainty in Sam's voice seems to reassure Dean enough to relax, fur settling back into place. "And Gabriel? It _is_ a little cool."

The way Gabriel instantly brightens warms something in Castiel, something deep and unfathomable. 

_Family. His family._


End file.
